


How to Have the Best Day Ever

by Captain_Panda



Series: Disney World! [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Cuddling & Snuggling, Disney World & Disneyland, Established Relationship, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Step 1: Go to Disney World with your boyfriend on his 48th birthday.Step 2: Congratulations! You are now on track to Have the Best Day Ever!To celebrate Tony’s birthday, Steve and the gang go to the most magical place on Earth.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Disney World! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801000
Comments: 34
Kudos: 52





	How to Have the Best Day Ever

**Author's Note:**

> What it says on the tin, folks! All you need is love.

“Happy bir—”

“ _Don’t_ finish that,” Tony interjected, wrestling Steve to the bench with an arm around Steve’s neck. “It will be _your_ birthday if you finish that statement and I _will_ make someone sing about it.”

“Did somebody say _birthday_?” Clint said, appearing with a purple flower necklace— _it’s called a lei, Steve_ —and an inadvisably large number of party balloons in hand. With his free hand, Clint stuffed a party hat over Steve’s head. “Happy birthday, chief.”

“Cute,” Steve said, removing the hat and putting it on _Tony’s_ head. With unexpectedly brisk reflexes, Tony intercepted and batted it into the nearby pond. “Tony, you said you _wanted_ —”

“I _said_ , _in-cog-ni-to_ ,” Tony retorted, darting down the boardwalk to avoid Clint’s backup party hat. “I’m going back to the room. You bas—baboons better get rid of those!” Taking off, he bellowed across the lawn, “I’m not mucking around!”

“I’m gonna get more balloons,” Clint declared, tying the present lot to Steve’s hand. “Really clear house. If we can still fit them in the room when I’m done, I haven’t maxed out the credit card.”

“Well,” Steve drawled, looking up at the balloons dubiously, “I don’t think we can take these _with_ us, but if they make you happy—”

“Trust me,” Clint said seriously, “he loves balloons.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. Confetti. Streamers. Whole nine yards. I got this. I’m gonna break the ice cream machine later.” Following Steve’s gaze to the lone party hat floating across the water, Clint stripped off his lei—Steve wisely held out a hand for it, avoiding a second unwanted crown—and shucked off his shirt. “I’ll get it.”

“You sure?” Steve asked, turning away as Clint launched himself into the water at the widest angle possible, causing a large quantity of water to splash back. “Keep it in the pond, wouldja?”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Clint called back, knifing over to the hat. Snagging it, he returned and leaped on shore, sloughing off huge volumes of water. “Look, see, I bet it still fits,” he said, tossing it at Steve with a grin. It landed in a sad puddle, thankfully short of its target. “You wanna check?”

“I’m good,” Steve said, flicking the lei back over Clint’s head. “Go dry off, nobody wants you getting the car all wet.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Clint said, wringing out his party hats and saying cheerfully, “I’ll get Bruce, he’s not up yet.”

“He’s _what?_ ” Shaking out his sleeve to check his watch, Steve started, “Barton, it’s nearly—” Then he shut his eyes with a pained expression as a sopping wet party hat was stuffed on his head. “. . . Banner’s been in the car the whole time, hasn’t he?”

“Went through security twice; wanted to scope out the parks early. Apparently, ‘first look’ doesn’t have enough luster for him—he’d rather be shaking the boxes before everybody else wakes up,” Clint said breezily. “And don’t worry, I’ve got a whole pack of these back in the room, he doesn’t have to wear that one.”

“Gee wow,” Steve said, bedecked in balloons and sopping wet party hat. “Is it _my_ birthday after all? This is awful nice of you.”

“Careful, or it will be,” Clint beamed, descending down the path at a brisk clip. “Nat said, ‘Bother me before noon at your peril,’ so, she sends her love.” 

“Of course.”

“Aw, happy birthday,” said a passing Disney cast member. “Aloha!”

“Aloha,” Steve Rogers deadpanned, forcing a smile as he held the balloons and reached up to remove the sopping wet party hat. “Disney magic, huh?”

“As promised!” Clint called back.

* * *

“No,” Tony said immediately. “N-o. No means _no_.”

“It’s understated,” Steve acknowledged, flicking his own ‘First Visit’ badge like a quarter and catching it. “See, look, you could even—hey,” he added, frowning sternly as Tony snatched the badge from him. “Tony, we can _get_ you a—you’ve _been here_ before. _Several times_.”

“Not in this decade,” Tony huffed, pinning the ‘First Visit’ badge to his shirt. It wasn’t quite Hawaiian polka, but it was close. The dark sunglasses and unyielding scowl really completed the _it’s my birthday_ look. “C’mon, chop chop, don’t wanna be left behind.”

“It’s not my birthday,” Steve said seriously, having successfully pocket-knifed the balloons off his wrist and tethered them to their hotel desk instead.

“Room service,” Clint belted from the other side of the door.

Tony _vaulted_ over the bed, but to no avail: using a magically procured key card, Clint appeared, holding a truly phenomenal quantity of balloons and saying gleefully, “This was the largest number they were willing to sell in one time. Look, Tony, all for you!”

Looking like he would rather exit off the balcony than confront the balloons in front of him, Tony made a small noise and retreated further into the room. Finding himself with limited options, he climbed onto the bed, putting himself fully behind Steve, who stood, somewhat thunderstruck by the getup. “Did you save _any_ for the children?” Steve asked.

“They have literally fifty thousand visitors a day,” Clint replied. “Ready? Three, two, one—”

“No, no, no,” Tony and Steve said at the same time, just before Clint released the balloons, which scattered like billiard balls in the enclosed space.

Steve, thankfully, caught the nest at the base before they could truly bloom, Clint’s noisy cackle more infectious than anticipated, a huff of laughter escaping him as he said, “For the love of the Almighty, Barton, don’t you know what a—”

“God, I wish I could get a hold of some live doves.”

“ _No,_ ” Steve and Tony said again, emphatically this time, as Clint cackled louder and helped Steve tie them to various structures, unable to coax them into coexisting with the previous lot of fifteen.

“Fifty-five,” Steve counted off, shaking his head in disbelief. “How on God’s green Earth did you get _fifty-five_ —”

“I,” said Clint Barton seriously, “am a gift to mankind.”

“S’my line,” Tony grumbled, abruptly freeing one bright blue balloon from the pile and tying it the remote on the nightstand. “That one’s Jimmy. The rest are getting popped at midnight.”

“See,” Clint preened, “toldja he liked balloons.”

* * *

“Oh, thank God,” chanted Bruce, standing in front of a flower feature at the entrance to the Magic Kingdom and pumping Steve’s hand a total of seventeen times, “thank God you’re here.”

“It’s not a wishing well, you know,” Steve said, letting out a sigh as Bruce attempted to squeeze the stuffing out of him a moment later. “Hey, why don’t you save some of that energy for our _birth_ —” Tony thwacked Steve loudly on the back of the head with a folded-up map. Steve amended smoothly, “For our very _special guest_.”

Bruce promptly lemured onto Tony with such zeal that Steve was momentarily concerned he would need to pull the jaws-of-life routine to get them apart, but then Tony patted Bruce twice on the back and Bruce released him. “Help _has_ arrived,” Tony promised him.

“Did you bring them? Please? Please?” Bruce wheedled.

Fishing in a pocket, Tony produced a pair of earbuds that Bruce promptly jammed in his ears, looking at Tony like he’d hung the Moon. Steve wasn’t honestly sure if his own eyes sparkled that much when he looked at Tony. Clasping Tony’s hand in both of his, Bruce brought it to his heart, held it there, and then looked at the rest of the group with serenity in his eyes, beaming. 

“Welcome to the Magic Kingdom!” Bruce proclaimed. “It’s so loud here, have you been inside? I swear Hulk was just going _ahhhhhh_ for—”

Clapping a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, Tony gave it a firm but kindly shake. Bruce said in a much more conversational tone, “Sorry, I forgot how loud it is. Quiet.” Then he clasped his hands together and instantly jacked up the volume again: “SO! Where to! I’m starving! I’m really hungry! I haven’t eaten since—”

Tapping him on the shoulder pointedly, Tony held up both hands to halt him. Waiting until Bruce nodded his understanding for silence, Tony mimed turning a dial to the left. _Down_. “Oh!” Bruce chirped. Then, lowering his voice and smiling sheepishly: “Got it. Sorry, these are great—are these the new ones? I can hear my own heartbeat!”

Holding up an OK sign, Tony nodded. 

“Wow!” Bruce beamed. “Is it _my_ birthday?”

Locking him in a loose headlock, Clint chided, “Who said anything about a birthday? We don't kid about that sort of thing in this family. Who knows what sort of—”

“To have,” Tony muttered to Steve alone, “a Taser.” Stuffing two fingers in his mouth, Tony whistled and glared at Clint, who released Bruce and stepped back. “I’m going to banish you to the Shadowlands if you keep terrorizing him,” Tony warned.

“EPCOT, or—”

“MGM,” Tony growled.

“It’s Hollywood Studios now,” Clint said, making Tony roll his eyes, almost audibly. “Still has _Star Wars_ ,” he rattled off cheerfully. “ _Rock ‘N’ Roller Coaster, Tower of Terror_ —”

“Hard to have a bad time here, isn’t it?” Steve told Tony sympathetically. Tony sighed deeply, pinching his brow. Steve rubbed his back.

Standing off to the side, Bruce looked between the trio hopefully. “So!” he bellowed. “Turkey legs? I’m starving!”

“It’s 9:30 in the morning,” Steve reminded, pointing at his watch when Bruce looked at him with big, don’t-eat-me-I’m-mangy eyes. “NINE-THIRTY,” Steve added in the same military bark that got across artillery fire and made Bruce pale several shades.

“SO NO TURKEY LEGS?” Bruce replied. “CHICKEN WINGS? CORN D—”

Clapping a hand over Bruce’s mouth, Clint informed dryly, “I got it.”

“Makes you feel young again, doesn’t it?” Steve said quietly, still rubbing Tony’s back more firmly, trying to draw him out of his shell. “C’mon, hey, it’s _your_ —special day,” he added, when Tony lifted his head and glared at him pointedly. “What would _you_ like?”

Straightening, Tony drew in a deep breath, thought long and hard for a moment, and then said royally, “ _Pirates of the Caribbean_.”

“Great,” Clint said. “Love it.”

“ _Space Mountain_ ,” Tony went on.

“Awful,” Clint went on. “Horrible plan. That’s on the opposite side of the park, Tony—”

“ _Splash Mountain_.”

“What the—fudge,” Clint said. “Tony, they didn’t restructure the park in ten years.”

“ _Then_ turkey legs,” he added serenely.

Seemed like a bang-up plan to Steve. “Seems like a bang-up plan,” he said aloud.

“That’s because you’re a dumb—bunny,” Clint said, snagging the map from Tony’s back pocket and holding it out in front of them. “Look. This is _Pirates_ , this is _Space Mountain_ , and _all the way over here_ is _Splash Mountain_. Do you see the triangle?”

“Great. Get our miles in,” Steve said, rolling up the rectangular map and pocketing it, no-room-for-argument. “How’s that sound, Banner?” he added for the sake of inclusivity.

Bruce, who had been looking off into space, blinked and held up an OK sign. “Love it!” he said. “Great plan!”

“See,” Steve said.

“Marshmallows,” Tony added. “I will allow one pit stop for marshmallows.”

“That—sure,” Steve said, shrugging amiably, because it _was_ Tony’s special day. “Do they— _sell_ marshmallows?”

“Do they _sell_ marshmallows?” Tony parroted, in that effortlessly, _Do they bottle water?_ way that made Steve sigh and clarify:

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“Yes, dear,” was all Tony said, before taking his arm and instructing, “Follow me.” And away they went.

* * *

Turned out, they not only sold marshmallows, but in confections that Steve considered borderline indecent. He had expected cotton balls; nothing could have prepared him for baseball-sized dollops on sticks or slabs of chocolate-covered graham crackers stuffed with marshmallow-y goodness. Biting into one was positively euphoric. 

“Wow,” Steve said, surprised that something so decadent could be purchased ready-made. It felt like a well-earned afternoon delight, something one would spend several hours baking. “This feels like something my Ma would have my hide for,” he said. It was like four cookies stacked on top of each other, almost too sweet to be real. He took another bite anyway, enjoying the mix of crunchy and gooey textures.

“Mine had a sweet tooth,” Tony confided unexpectedly, munching down on a s’more of his own. “Cheesecake was her guilty pleasure.”

“Ma, she liked cookies. She probably woulda liked this,” Steve mused, taking a thoughtful bite. “Tastes like it was just made.”

“It was, dear,” Tony said, looking out at “Main Street, U.S.A.,” whatever that meant, with an unreadable look in his eyes. “Can’t stay too long, though; we should probably walk and talk.”

“Well, we’re not in a rush,” Steve said, taking another leisurely bite. They’d sent Bruce, who’d somehow inhaled an entire “marshmallow wand” in less than a minute, onward with Clint, who had eaten such a voluptuous breakfast at the Polynesian Village Resort they were staying at that he had forgone the confectionery, while they lingered outside the shop, people-watching. “We got all day.”

“ _And_ four parks,” Tony reminded, in a, _We’ve been through this_ , way, even though Steve could not remember for the life of him the debriefing segment where they’d discussed _four parks_ in _one day_.

“Four?” he said aloud. “You sure that’s—”

“ _Eminently_ doable,” Tony assured, tugging on his shirt to get him up and moving. “C’mon, I’ve seen you inhale an entire Christmas turkey in eight minutes, up and at ‘em.”

Blushing at the reminder—it had been a long day, and when Tony had said that he was too stuffed to eat another bite after three Christmas parties, Steve had been happy to clear the air of any fear of leftovers from one last party—Steve stuffed the rest of the cookie in his mouth and chomped it down in two quick bites. “All right, hoss,” he said, just as Clint and Bruce returned, holding up a pair of blue bags.

“Oh, no,” Tony deadpanned, stepping behind Steve. “Don’t look at me; I’m not here.”

“But you are here,” Steve said, amused, turning towards him and slinging an arm around him to protect him from milling tourists.

“Hey, Tony!” Bruce greeted. He held up his own large blue bag, then pulled a slightly smaller, lighter blue bag out of it, saying loudly, “You didn’t tell me it was your—”

“Ixnay on the irthbay,” Tony cut in, snatching the [baby-blue backpack](https://cdn-ssl.s7.disneystore.com/is/image/DisneyShopping/7501057372612) out of Bruce’s hands before he could finish the thought. “What is this?” he asked Clint, who took advantage of his momentary distraction to produce a second, truly _confectionery_ [birthday hat](https://disneyworld.disneyfloralandgifts.com/images/SEO%20images/Birthday-Ears-Hat-wdw-Medium.jpg) from his large blue bag, which he promptly squared off on Tony’s head, complete with a strap for safe-keeping.

Realizing he’d been had, Tony adopted his _I don’t see it, it doesn’t see me_ strategy, ignoring the hat altogether as he slowly unzipped the bag and made a show of arching both eyebrows behind his sunglasses. “Did you blow our entire budget on Rice Krispies treats?” he asked, pulling one out and wagging it around slowly, tipping the bag down so Steve could see that it was, in fact, loaded with Mickey Mouse-shaped marshmallow treats.

“Snacks,” Clint said, “for later.” Zipping the bag up proprietarily, he added, “Don’t let ‘em melt.”

Letting out the world’s most long-suffering sigh, Tony held out the baby-blue backpack—covered, Steve realized with amusement, in little cartoon characters, technicolor versions of Mickey Mouse and other critters he assumed were related—and said seriously, “I have to keep this.” He said it like both a question and last words.

“You have to,” Clint said. “It’s Bruce’s gift.”

Grimacing as though deeply wounded, Tony nodded once, made a full bow to Bruce, who smiled in gentle confusion and said, “Oh, Tony, you don’t have to,” before cutting himself off as Tony slid the backpack on. “Hey, look, it fits,” Bruce said cheerfully.

“It’s a mini-backpack,” Tony said, with endless patience and fathomless fatigue, as though he had been over this a thousand times. “Did you read the tag?”

“Yes,” Bruce said cheerfully. “Everything here is expensive.”

Steve barked a laugh—“Ain’t that the truth”—and slung an arm high around Tony’s shoulders, gentle so as not to upset him. He could feel that pot-ready-to-boil-over noise that meant things needed to get a move on, _or else_. “So, uh— _Pirates_?” he said. “Of the Carib-bean?”

“Caribbean,” Tony corrected.

“That’s what I said,” Steve said. “Carib-bean.”

“It’s—yes,” Tony agreed, burying his face against Steve’s shirt for a moment. “Get this off me or I will kill a man.”

Amused, Steve said, “I don’t know, I think it’s—all right, all right,” he assured as Tony growled. Reaching up to gently undo the straps and remove the hat, Steve unzipped the backpack and tucked it inside with all twelve Rice Krispies treats. “There,” he said, running his hands through Tony’s hair for good measure, which elicited a low growl. “Yeah, yeah, don’t touch,” he agreed, amused, backing off, only to be pulled closer again when Tony took his arm. Gently. Tony wasn’t mad, after all, just—huffy. 

“Caribbean,” Tony said again.

Really trying, Steve said, “Carib-bean.”

“No,” Tony said. “Kehr, ibh, ee, ehn.”

“Kehr, ibh, ee, ehn,” Steve echoed, pitch-perfect.

“ _Pirates of the Caribbean_ ,” Tony said.

Steve pulled him close, nuzzling his temple briefly. “Is this a test?”

Grumbling audibly, Tony huffed, “Yes. And I don’t take bribes.” Pushing Steve away, he ordered, “Say it.” Then, tucking two fingers in his mouth and whistling after Clint and Bruce, who had gained a commanding lead, he added, “ _With_ me, or I’ll revoke your FastPasses.”

Clint cheerfully cut ahead, whistling a tune Steve vaguely recognized as one he’d been singing half the trip— _It’s a Small World_ , Tony called it, with a deeply pained expression that implied it was not a good world—but Bruce sidled up, gripping the side of Tony’s little backpack briefly, apologetically, like a kid who’d strayed from his parent for too long. “We have FastPasses?” he asked, one of his ears conspicuously free of his earbuds.

“Do you _want_ to wait 90 minutes in line for _Space Mountain_?” Tony retorted, fussing with his phone. “Of course we have FastPasses. Bet I can get ‘em for _Pirates_.”

“What’s a FastPass?” Steve asked.

“Waiting-in-line get-out-of-jail-free card,” Tony said, showing him a brief image of his phone, screen full of a series of time slots, fingers flying as he selected a slot marked _10:10_ and announced, “You’re welcome.”

“You’re a miracle worker,” Bruce said, tucking his second earbud back in and scurrying after Clint.

Sighing, Tony dawdled alongside Steve, who marched to the beat of Tony’s drum, and said, “It’s a four-minute walk, we’re fine.”

“You have this down to a tee,” Steve said, amused. “I didn’t realize it was so . . . automated.”

“Oh, it wasn’t,” Tony said, sniffing haughtily. “Ten years ago, you had to hoof it, go up to these little _kiosks_ —” he said the word fondly, like _Roomba_ , “and get a card, and there were only so many per day, and it was—well, it was better than waiting three hours in line, but not by much,” he said, swinging their arms lightly. “Look at us, we’re a Disney couple.”

“What makes a Disney couple?” Steve asked, genuinely curious.

“Being on Disney property,” Tony said without a shred of irony.

“Surprised I didn’t see that one coming,” Steve said dryly, blinking as Tony steered them to the left, away from a pair of bronzed, cartoony camels. “Not a fan?”

Pausing deliberately, Tony said nothing, and Steve looked at the statues dubiously, wondering what sort of carnie trick he was in for when the camel on the left suddenly hawked a mouthful of water at the wet spot on the pavement they’d been crossing paths with. “Oh,” he said. “That’s not very magical.”

Tony huffed, a barely repressed laugh, and said, “I’m very excited for you to experience this.”

* * *

“So, the principle is the same as any boat: it floats because it’s buoyant,” Tony began, as they rolled up towards an empty abyss. “We’re actually floating in three feet of water.”

“You don’t have to, Tony, I can follow along,” Steve assured, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t perturb the folks in front of them—which, thankfully, included an insulating layer of Bruce and Clint. He’d been on enough carnival rides to know the gist of one and he’d even spent some time on ships, so there was nothing particularly jarring about combining the two experiences—exhilarating, yes, but he’d get by without needing to know the details this time around, he didn’t need Tony to inconvenience himself.

With the little blue backpack perched on his lap, Steve had his free arm wrapped around Tony’s shoulders. It was still a little cramped, but at least Steve could stretch out. Tony liked to have an arm around him when it was dark out, and it sure was dark out in this place. Steve had asked Tony, _Don’t they have floodlights or something?_ but Tony had told him, _No, that’d ruin the ambience_ , so Steve had shrugged and climbed into the tiny boat before rightly warning, _This isn’t very seaworthy_ , while Tony had slid in after him and assured, _It doesn’t have to be, it’s not going out to sea_.

 _Still has to float_ , Steve had pointed out. _Yes,_ Tony had replied, _in three feet of water_.

“The current determines the speed and direction of the boat,” Tony went on in the same muted _I’m working_ tone, resting his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. They lurched forward, dipping into a lower pool of water and moving into a dark cavern, the black noise almost but not quite overwhelming the distant sounds of a waterfall. “The weight of the passengers affects which direction it points, but it won’t swing around completely inside the channel.”

“You don’t have to explain it, Tony, I can keep up,” Steve hushed again, detecting the jabber of interfering human voices and odder still, the backdrop of humming, thrumming machines, clicking and noisy, barely detectable underneath the water sounds. 

It was strangely comforting to Steve, having spent so much time in Tony’s lab. It almost felt like another day in the workshop, the darkness, Tony’s quiet voice, telling him about holography and the projection of light onto thin veils of falling water. Steve still gave a full body shiver like a hound shaking off when they passed underneath the thin veil of water and its creaking metronome iterating _Dead men tell no tales_ , and Tony took it as his cue to switch gears:

“It’s an interactive movie,” Tony said. “Like going to the cinema. You like the cinema, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, feeling vaguely illicit for speaking during the ride, but no one could hear them over the hullabaloo, let alone at such an inoffensive volume, “you know I do. This is something special, Tony. Like walkin’ onto a movie set—poor fella,” he added, nodding at a shipwrecked fella who had met his end on a sandy knoll. Steve was glad it was a skeleton—he hadn’t found _skeletons_ on the battlefield, much less cartoonishly polished ones. He found much of the fuss and fanfare around them was so exaggerated—bam, pow!, thunder and lightning that couldn’t be frightening—that he could enjoy it for what it was: a live cinema performance. 

“So, who’re we rootin’ for?” Steve asked, looking up at a skeletal gentleman steering his boat through stormy seas, firming his grip around Tony’s shoulders to ensure if any sort of tomfoolery happened, he’d be ready.

“Well, we’re team pirate, of course,” Tony said, and then, “I hate to ruin the surprise, but as I have experienced this ride for the both of us—fifteen-foot drop, fifteen-percent grade, coming up in three seconds. Actual babies do it,” he added as a parting remark.

Steve snorted as a Jolly Roger winked a golden eye above them and said something he forgot. Then they leaped over an invisible hummock and zipped down a fifteen-foot hill at a fifteen-percent grade, far from the daunting imagery a plunge into the abyss conjured for the shrieking passengers in front of them. 

As for himself, Steve had had more far intense zip-lining experiences. He grinned toothily as they shoved forward a wall of water that failed to ricochet back and soak the boat. Tony remarked breezily, “It’s actually designed to _not_ splash.”

“Incredible,” Steve said honestly. “Outstanding.”

Having firmly established that he was touring a movie set, he was able to enjoy the performance for what it was, as pirates lining either side of the pond shot—“smoke-and-mirrors”—at each other. “You know,” he told Tony, “kind of takes the fun out of it if you can’t lose.”

“Disney magic,” Tony explained, snugging against him. “You hear it?”

He did, realizing after a beat he was tapping out the rhythm— _a pirate’s life for me_ —along Tony’s flank. “Sorry,” he said. “This is for children? How do they keep up?”

Tony inhaled deeply, a thoughtful noise, and finally said, “Parents?”

“You chaperoning me now?”

“Boy, you’d be lost without me,” Tony huffed. “Admit it.”

“Something like that,” Steve said, amused, cheek against the top of his head, tapping the rhythm as the song grew distinctly audible. “Gonna have that in my head all day.”

“ _What can I say except, ‘You’re welcome_ ,’” Tony deadpanned, making Steve laugh, well above the hushed threshold they’d established.

* * *

It was piping hot and snack time as they marched to: “Tomorrowland.”

“You should feel right at home,” Tony said, nudging Steve in the ribs. “Practically your kin.”

“Cute,” Steve said, munching down on one of the dozen Rice Krispies treats Bruce and Clint had conjured—Bruce was sawing a second in half, trampling cheerfully ahead, oblivious to the ducks marching in his path in the hopes that disaster would befall his snack. “Is it—”

“Well, normally I don’t like to sit still for twenty minutes at a time, and that isn’t likely to change, but I could do four rounds of _Buzz_ while you run the _Carousel of Progress_ ,” Tony said. “I’d miss you terribly. You’d write, though, wouldn’t you?”

“A twenty-minute carousel?” Steve said slowly. “Sounds like an endurance test.”

“Truly.” Tony snagged the Rice Krispies treat, broke off a bite, and added around it, “You’re tough, you’d survive. Maybe.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Steve said dubiously. “Is it good?”

“Theoretically,” Tony said, pawing around his shoulder for the backpack zip that Steve snagged for him, fetching a treat underneath the ears. “Thank you, dear,” he said, offering Steve an ear as recompense. “I’ve never been on it,” Tony explained. “Wasn’t that patient as a kid. Aw,” he added, squinting at a sign with a strange blue critter on it that read, _Stitch’s Great Escape._ “I don’t remember what was here before but it scared the _shi_ —snot out of me,” he said. “Oh God, it was a necromorph. That’s what it was.”

Shuddering meaningfully, he added, “It was badas—Astro Orbiter. That one made me sick. This place hasn’t changed much,” he added, an inexpressible fondness in his voice. “So much for _Tomorrow_ -land. Oh, look, speaking of abominations,” he added dryly, pointing at a furry blue—bear? It was the only word Steve could think to describe the critter that paused near the door to the gray building of former renown, waving a blue four-clawed hand at them. Without hesitation, Tony lifted a hand and waved back, seeming oddly charmed. “Like recognizing like.”

“You should go say hi,” Steve prompted, sensing a moment. “He seems friendly.”

“Of course he is, he’s a space alien,” Tony said, too quickly, rolling his eyes and tugging on Steve’s arm. “Don’t sabotage me, our flight window is in twenty minutes.”

Planting his feet, Steve said, “Well, great. Let’s go, then.”

Blinking, Tony said, “What, _you_ wanna meet him? Fine.” Shrugging, Tony turned on his heel to follow the blue bear thing back towards its little cave, adding, “Just so you know, if we’re late to our booking window, you’re telling Banner why, and he _will_ cry.” Evidently unperturbed at the prospect, Tony darted ahead, adding, “Oh, and his name’s Stitch, in case that wasn’t clear.” He pointed up at the sign, one arm high in the air, without pausing.

Amused, Steve followed him, lengthening his stride so he didn’t have to up his gait, letting Tony wrap his arm around his chest and hold it there, narrating, “You should’ve told me sooner, you know, I would’ve worked it into the schedule. I have a very strident schedule, we have to be at Animal Kingdom by two, not a minute later. Aw,” he added, squeezing Steve’s arm as a boy rushed up to hug the blue bear tightly. “See, look, he doesn’t bite. Don’t judge him, he’s a good little monster.” 

After a beat, Tony added, “We _definitely_ watched _Lilo and Stitch_.” He ducked to look at Steve, then said, “Oh, God, we went straight to _Finding Nemo_. We forgot _Lilo and Stitch_.” Straightening so he could move forward with the line, he said, “I’ve failed in my civic duty in your reeducation.”

“Nah,” Steve said. “Look, see. That’s Stitch. What’s Lilo?”

“I’d say ‘ask him,’ but he doesn’t talk to strangers,” Tony said—smirking at his own joke, Steve was sure, because he was ninety-nine percent certain that the blue bear thing didn’t speak at all. Or, if it did, it wasn’t talking much to the other folks who’d stopped by to check out the oddity from outer space. It was definitely a different kind of sideshow, and Steve kind of liked it—it didn’t make him feel so sad in his heart like some of the carnivals, and it wasn’t like he didn’t _know_ it was a show. And it was clearly one that mattered to Tony, more than he was letting on, so he just said:

“Maybe I can ask the Google about it.”

“Really wish you wouldn’t call it that,” Tony said, though he was smiling and trying hard not to as they approached the blue bear thing. “Look sharp,” he added, ducking out from under Steve’s arm, still wearing the baby-blue backpack—he seemed to have forgotten it entirely, which amused Steve—and tugging Steve’s shirt straight. “Not everyday you meet a certified representative from the galactic federation.”

“No,” Steve agreed, gently rumpling his hair before Tony swatted his hand away lightly. “All right. I don’t speak blue alien, but that seems like _All yours_ ,” he added, as the blue bear— _Stitch_ —waved both arms inward, silently beckoning. Instead of rushing forward, Tony latched onto Steve’s arm, half-leading, half-hauling him forward.

“Hey, buddy,” Tony greeted the blue bear, just before hugging it. It hugged Tony with far more gusto than Steve would have expected, a playful rocking hug that Tony didn’t pull away from, like he sometimes did with such over-the-top affections. Tony simply squeezed the blue alien back, the flash of a camera-wielding cast member slipping by unremarked upon. 

“Hi, yes,” Tony was saying, pulling back to look at the blue bear properly, “hi, listen, I brought you a new friend,” and then he was gesturing at Steve, who politely stepped forward and held out a hand for a shake. The blue alien grasped it with both paws, shook it twice, and then did the same arms-waving-forward gesture, so Steve crouched and notched an arm around his blue furred shoulders, giving him a gentle pat on the back. 

It surprised him how touchy-feely people—and blue aliens—could be these days. Of course, the Captain America effect still came into play, and Steve almost thought it was the Captain America effect coloring the warmth of the blue alien’s hug, but the blue bear thing didn’t linger once Steve released him, turning towards Tony and putting an arm around his shoulders to draw him in instead, pointing at the same camera-wielding cast member enthusiastically. 

Before Steve could step out of frame politely, he found himself being tugged forward by Tony’s hand in his shirt, pulling him tight against his side. Slipping the backpack off Tony’s shoulders and holding it behind himself instead, Steve pressed his arm against Tony’s back, flattening his palm against the blue bear’s back. Smiling for the camera, he reckoned silently, _Ma, you wouldn’t believe who I met today_.

As they prepared to part ways, Steve gripping the backpack in one hand, Tony turned to the blue bear, hands twitching as he prompted abruptly, “One more for the road?” It wasn’t quite casual. 

The blue bear didn’t make him wait, stepping forward and hugging him again, rubbing his back vigorously, even rocking. It was the kind of hug only rare friends shared at once-in-a-blue-moon encounters. Steve had the thought that _hugs are supposed to be this warm_ , and wondered if it was a teaching moment, or an _I need this_ moment, or just an _I missed you, buddy_ moment.

One way or another, when he slung his arm around Tony’s shoulders and walked him out of the little meet-and-greet area, he barely waited until they rounded the corner before he pulled Tony into a gentle hug, backpack in hand, chin on Tony’s bowed head. Silently, he vowed, _I’m gonna hug you more_. Ducking his head to press a kiss to the top of Tony’s, he promised aloud, “You’re a sweet guy, Tony. I love you.”

Tony said nothing for a long moment, holding onto him. Then he pulled back and exhaled, looking up at Steve. “I needed that,” he admitted, low and almost not there, smirking at Steve, half-rueful, half-hopeful. He held on longer, nodding over his shoulder and indicating with a squeeze to his hips, “C’mon. Those FastPasses still have our names on ‘em. They even have a fifteen-minute grace window.”

They were right on time.

* * *

“So, fun fact—twelve people have stood on the Moon,” Tony said, walking backwards up the arched tunnel in the designed “FastPass” lane, right next to the general standby lane, which had a line to the _door_. “Which means six people have been within spitting distance of setting foot on another celestial body and not been able to take the leap,” he said, pulling Steve aside, letting a small group pass them at speed.

“Check it out,” he said, indicating vertiginously indented, almost holographic screens on the panels in front of him, displaying nothing but stars in every direction. “Imagine that’s your lunar view, and you have the chance to stand on the Moon, but you’re the third man. And it _was_ a man. These were the nineteen-sixties, after all.” 

Smirking ruefully, he tugged on Steve’s sleeve, resuming the seemingly endless, surprisingly steep march up the dark interior of the metal mountain. “But we’ve wizened up. Did you know there is a website called _[HowManyPeopleAreInSpaceRightNow dot com](https://www.howmanypeopleareinspacerightnow.com/)_? Tracks how many people are on the International Space Station, mostly. Kind of cool to think about. You know, existentially. That there are people up there, right now, in space.” Again, he pulled Steve aside; again, oblivious to the magic, the show-must-go-on crowd flitted by them, eager to get to the main attraction, thundering in the great distance. 

The FastPass lane sure lived up to its name, Steve mused, as Tony and he lingered by the railing, listening among the quiet murmur of the standby line to the stellar background music, long, falling loops and gentle, more whimsical cords. Clint and Bruce were only a few paces ahead, pausing to observe the little way stations set along the way, keeping pace with them—they could’ve gone ahead, Steve knew, with their own FastPasses on their little magical bands, their electronic tickets, but they stuck with the group, although they were not close enough nor able to hear Tony rhapsodize:

“I’d love to go to space. Be up there, where it’s dark and quiet and bigger than you can imagine. That’s what it’s all about. _Bigger_. It’s not just that it’s bright and full of stars, and black holes, and supernovae, and unimaginably weird stuff. It’s that it’s big. It’s the biggest room you’ve ever been in, the biggest, emptiest, most amazing . . . God, can you imagine?” He pulled Steve aside, leaning against the railing, Steve nearly pressed to his front as another group shuffled past, musing at him, “What it would be like? To be in all that emptiness? Not like the ocean, mind you, that’s _fullness_. This is just bigness. You know, we’re so scared of nothing. I’m not. I think it’s the most beautiful thing ever conceived. No noise, no background radiation, no interference. Just . . . big, beautiful, silence.”

There was nothing silent about the space, let alone the noisy rumble of the distant faux-rockets, but as they lingered—as Clint and Bruce allowed others to pass them by, to take their head-of-the-line spots in an age where time was still precious—Tony said wistfully, “I’d love to experience that. Just once. So, I come here. And I linger. Because to me, even though it’s . . . loud, and not empty, and ugly to some people because it's fake . . . it’s like getting ready. This, to me . . . is readiness. It’s the _before_ page. One day, our descendants will go to space, just like driving the family car. Can you imagine?”

Both arms around Tony’s back, looking at dark eyes darker still with wonder, luminous with possibility, with the anticipation of an age when spaceflight was normal, Steve could only reply, “I can when I’m with you.”

Tony grinned, grinned like they were alone in that long tunnel, like their rocket really would take them to _space_ , and maybe that was why people came to these places, Steve mused, as another group passed by: they were eager to experience space, having made peace with the idea at the gate—they all wanted to catch a glimpse of tomorrow.

“Tomorrowland,” Steve announced. Tony’s eyes twinkled, reflected with the dim lighting in that starlight tunnel. He took Steve’s hand in his, and together, they marched onward to the stars.

* * *

The ride was not like anything Steve expected it to be. He knew what it was like to drift with Iron Man on a bed of nothing, to rise up slowly, to sink to the ground steadily, to fly. He knew what it was like to feel almost weightless and what it was like to hover thirty thousand feet above the ground with nothing but metal arms around him to keep him from falling. Some would have been breathless with fear, but he was never unsure about his pilot, never in doubt that Tony would keep him afloat or, in the worst case, catch him, should he fall. 

As they rumbled forward, Tony observed with ecstatic jubilation from the car in front of him, “You know, you remember it as a kid. There was more legroom.” And Steve laughed, because he had the little backpack crumpled in with his own legs and understood the observation well. He had barely believed that the safety bar would close, but for a moment, he’d almost hoped it wouldn’t, just for a silly moment, because they didn’t fly with bars and safety latches and harnesses. No, they floated, as easy as three-two-one-takeoff.

For want of a shoulder to curve his arm around, Steve curled his hand around the bar in front of himself instead. It proved to be a happy little accident: for then the metal beast lurched temperamentally around another corner, zinging through a flashing tunnel, as herky-jerky as a bronco. There was something wonderful about how it growled and rumbled and shook underneath them as it was dragged up a hill. A daring sort of madness.

Steve looked to the left and saw a command center with a rocket in the backdrop. He saw from the corner of his eye Tony’s head conspicuously turned towards the same scene and scarcely needed to imagine the look in Tony’s eye, the glimmer of light in the darkness, the fire of joy that had first been lit in the Stone Age.

 _To the stars_. 

And there was no pretending that the metal beast beneath them was anything more than a cantankerous little mule, never meant to launch them into orbit—Steve would certainly hope in that spectacular event he would have at least _some_ real barrier between himself and the cutting, chilling, killing emptiness of space—but to be exposed completely on the coaster, with only a bar to protect him from spectacular annihilation, was to drive with the windows down. It was never meant to take itself too seriously, and yet it felt somehow incredibly serious, _Was this a very good idea?_ as, facing a considerable climb, Tony hollered back to him, “No chickening out now, I know you’re thinking it!”

Grinning, Steve shouted back, “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Going to die!” wailed Bruce two cars ahead. “Going to die!” But he didn’t seem particularly aggrieved, more Shakespearean in intonation: _Alas! Alas! Here I meet my end! Goodbye, friends! Farewell!_ It only made Steve laugh, which he knew was somewhat mean-spirited, but entrusting the earbuds Tony had given Bruce to do their job, Steve knew there was probably no harm in him noticing it, anyway, and then their mean little ride was tearing around a corner, picking up speed quickly. 

He thought, _Give it your best shot_.

And hot dog, that little spitfire could _fly_.

* * *

It was well after noon—quite literally—when Tony dropped to a bench and announced suddenly, “Okay, pit stop.”

Though he was loathe to admit it, Tony’s endurance could be somewhat limited. He had terrific strength—in his free time, he liked to build two-hundred-pound _Iron Man_ suits—but he could only sustain short bursts of intense running or moderately long walks before it became somewhat agonizing for him. His chest didn’t expand like it should, and his lung capacity was only seventy percent what it should have been; it was as much a carrying capacity problem as it was the physical discomfort of breathing too hard in an uncooperative ribcage.

Steve would have gladly called it a day, but it was Tony’s day, and he had never been one to put limits on Tony’s abilities. So he simply took a seat beside him, pulled out his own phone, and said, “Okay, Google—what’s a _Lilo_?”

Tony huffed a laugh, resting his cheek against Steve’s shoulder as Siri, the lovely telephone operator who answered Google-related inquiries 24/7, responded promptly: “A Lilo is a large and violent maelstrom; a whirlpool.”

“ _Lilo and Stitch_ ,” Tony corrected, shutting his eyes.

“Okay, Google, what’s a _Lilo and Stitch_?” Steve corrected.

Thankfully, the second time was the charm, and Siri’s response made a bit more sense, in terms of potential companions for blue aliens.

“I’m gonna check in with Nat,” Clint said breezily, wandering off to do so. “Don’t leave the park without me, I have plans.”

“Uh oh,” Tony muttered, biting Steve’s shoulder gently through his shirt as he took Steve’s phone out of his hands, clicked through several screens, and announced, “Most magical place on Earth has WiFi. Now it really is special.”

“I can get you a water,” Steve added. Tony continued to gnaw at his shoulder.

“May get wet,” he mumbled. “Next stop.”

“C’mon,” Steve encouraged, standing up and coaxing him to his feet. “Let’s go find a place with air coolant.”

“Air conditioning,” Tony corrected.

“Air conditioning,” Steve replied dryly. Catching Clint’s eye, Steve waved his own phone in the air to indicate, _Text me_. Clint nodded his understanding.

Collecting Bruce, who had been lolling nearer the duck pond surrounding the castle, they found their way to a tavern that had room for three more. 

The Columbia Harbour House proved to be a rewarding pit stop. Steve alone plowed through nearly ten glasses of water in the first half hour, to their server’s surprise and endless enthusiasm, ensuring, “Can’t stop me, no sir, I will get you as much water as you like.” 

Steve went through another ten before showing any signs of stopping. Employing his own camel trick that would likely kill an ordinary man would at least guarantee that he wouldn’t need to guzzle as much on the next stop. Such a gorge would probably only last him half a day in the humid heat of Florida, he reflected with a smile, feeling a bit sloshed as he leaned back in his chair, twenty glasses deep and nibbling on a roll, only half-heartedly hungry.

“You’re like the kid that eats butter and forgets the bread that comes with it,” Tony critiqued, finishing his third glass with an emphatic _clunk_. He dragged Steve’s placid arm across the table, engaging him in a thumb war as they awaited their second round of seafood. 

At his side, Bruce was finishing his sixth glass of water. His metabolism was, in his own words, “weird.” Some days he went full camel, but other days, particularly when he was stressed—well, the five empty glasses on his side of the table were instructive.

Dauntless, their water returned with another full tray of water. “Got you folks covered,” he announced, a touch breathless from the acrobatics of carrying that much water without spilling a drop. “Nobody goes thirsty on _my_ watch.” Setting the tray down and relieving its cargo with practiced movements, he added, “Although, I must say, I wouldn’t expect any less from you fine folks. It is an honor to serve.” He flicked a two-fingered salute at Steve, then nodded at Tony and Bruce with a knowing smile, adding, “Happy to do it. Truly happy.” Then he grabbed his tray and disappeared to take care of his other clients.

“That man,” Tony said, “is made of pixie dust.”

Snorting a laugh, Bruce wiped his mouth on his sleeve, announcing, “Oh, God, you got it up my nose,” and reaching for his napkin. “I was so close to making it through.”

Letting Tony win the thumb war, Steve smiled when Tony tucked his thumb underneath his own to be contrary. Giving it a squeeze, Steve murmured, “How you doing, Tony?”

“I don’t know, do I need to call Life Alert for ya?” Tony replied, airy and without a hint of malice. At least the air coolant and time off his feet seemed to have done its job, bringing some of the color back to his face—he certainly seemed more buoyant as he hauled his chair close and shoved himself under Steve’s arm. Lifting it his arm so Tony could get comfortable, Steve wrapped it around Tony’s shoulders, keeping him warm in the air coolant.

Sighing happily, Tony said, “Only in Disney do they cheerfully try to drown you in hospitality.”

“And wish you a magical day,” Steve murmured, reaching for his twenty-first glass and making Tony huff against his shirt.

“Save some for the _fish_ ,” he chided.

“No,” Steve muttered. “I will eat them, and drink their water, too.”

“A ruthless capitalist after my own heart,” Tony said, kissing the underside of his chin. “How did I ever find someone like you?”

“Dumb luck,” Steve said, not untruthfully.

Tony rolled his eyes, nudged him in the ribs, and said, “Yes, dear, that _is_ what we can tell the kids.”

It was Steve’s turn to narrowly avoid choking on his water, but Tony smirked, like he’d known what he’d been doing. Sighing, Steve said, “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Yes,” Tony said, serenely, reaching for another glass of water. “And you love me.”

“Sure do,” Steve said, squeezing him. “To the ends of the Earth.”

Bruce slurped his water, earbuds back in, and Steve couldn’t help but laugh at the ill-disguised attempt to distract himself. “Yes,” Tony said suddenly, making a show of clutching a hand to his heart. “Steven, how _could_ you?”

Bruce looked at them, wide-eyed and unsure, sipping his water.

Smirking, Steve lifted Tony’s hand, kissed the knuckles, and murmured, “Brat.”

“Yours,” Tony murmured back, pinching the bridge of Steve’s nose before stealing his water.

And Steve loved him to the ends of the Earth.

They tipped their waiter handsomely, well over five hundred percent. _Water friends for?_ Tony wrote in the margin next to Tip: $2,750.00.

Disney cast members weren’t the only ones capable of sharing magic.

* * *

“Five-minute line,” was the justification, and, “Really wanna see how long it takes the crack the nut of Clint’s endurance,” was the rationale.

Game for anything, Steve followed the gang down the plank towards the loading dock, barely able to think past the upbeat melody overlaying the entire area. Tiered with toy soldiers and spinning clocks, the white-gold stage reminded him of Alice’s _Wonderland_. 

He was almost convinced that a white rabbit would appear to inform them that they were late to an important date, even though it was clear that the only thing that awaited at the end of the line was another dubiously seaworthy boat.

To his credit, Tony _had_ mentioned some kind of _spinning teacup_ attraction. A mid-walk consultation of the map—completed as they rounded turn number four in the five-minute-walk queue—revealed that it was on nearly the opposite side of the park. Evidently, Steve mused, nearly everything was located on the opposite sides of the park from each other.)

Tucking the map back into his back pocket and shrugging wordlessly at Tony’s inquiring glance, he decided not to bring it up as a source of interest. Having consumed enough clam chowder to feed a cavalry, he was perfectly happy with the hitherto absence of spinning rides.

Then again, he mused, as he watched Tony slink _between_ the two metal bars dividing up the queue rather than following the neat bend of turn number five, if they continued down the five-minute queue in the same manner, they wouldn’t need it to get the same experience.

When Tony went to repeat the move for turn number six, he grabbed the back of his blue backpack to stop him, warning drolly, “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

“Can’t; I’m too fast,” Tony said, but he grinned and relented, walking backwards instead. Gesturing at the cake-like facility and its never-ending queue, he added, “This is the first test.”

“Oh, so it _is_ a test,” Steve said.

Nodding seriously, Tony walked into Bruce’s back, who had caught up with the boarding line and was looking around in vague amusement, earplugs in. “Hey,” Tony said, tapping his shoulder and then pointing to his own ear. Bruce looked at him, his expression falling, first pleading, then outright mournful as Tony shook his head. Defeated, Bruce reached up and removed the earplugs, pocketing them.

“If you survive, I’ll buy you the biggest turkey leg you can find in EPCOT,” Tony said, which made him brighten, despite having done his part in raiding the Harbour House’s storehouse. Following him down the moving line, Tony added, “There is a chicken exit.”

Jaw set, Bruce shook his head grimly. “No, I can do it.”

“Is it that bad?” Steve asked. Whistling ahead of them, unperturbed, Clint didn’t chime in, but Tony grinned in a way that said, _Shouldn’t have asked that,_ while Bruce looked at him balefully.

Unlike _Pirates,_ they were directed to the front of the line. Somewhat self-consciously, Steve said, “Aw, Tony, what about the folks—” But Tony shooed him forward, and before he could formulate a proper argument that didn’t amount to, _What about the little folks in the back?_ their ride had arrived. The perks of being up front were immediate and many—unobstructed view, easy to see what was up ahead, and of course, _leg room_. 

Why, if he were out with the boys, he’d put his feet right up on the hull, get real comfortable, but of course it wasn’t proper in the conditions of a theme park, so he enjoyed what he had. Making the best of a bad situation, he slung as low as he could in the seat, trying not to be so goddamned _huge_ for once, knowing there were little ones who couldn’t possibly see around—

“Three-sixty view,” Tony informed him, hooking an arm around his upper back and tugging him back fully upright. “Don’t lean, you’ll tip the boat.” 

“S’my job,” Clint added, patting him on the back. “Wish I had peanuts, I could—”

“Get us kicked out,” Tony told him, tugging the backpack onto his own lap and snugging up under Steve’s arm, adding, “don’t forget to watch your children, Steven.”

“How can I?” Steve said dryly. “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. Anybody need to go to the bathroom?” he asked, turning to look at Bruce and Clint, who had spaced out precisely on either side of the second row. “Too late,” he told them, turning back to face the front as the boat glided forward, deciding, to heck with it, he’d enjoy himself. The music was certainly picking up quickly, distracting him from any attempts at conversation.

He expected Tony to talk over the ride, but Tony would have had to carry a microphone to do it. There was simply no competing with it. It really _was_ Wonderland, Steve thought, amused, bemused, and somehow enchanted. It was precisely as if a music box had come to life, louder and brighter than anything he could have imagined, all set to the cheeriest little tune he’d ever heard, embraced by dancing dollies and nodding nannies—billy goats, he corrected, lips quirking upward at their spiraling horns, big bobbing billy goats.

Before he could so much as form the word, _Wow_ , he glanced upward and spotted a pair of flying carpets, tapping Tony’s leg to get his attention, but there was _more_ in front of them, little ships bobbing on little Niles, the whole world miniaturized. The words of the song seemed to melt away, leaving only the circus behind—and it _was_ a circus, he realized, as monkeys dangled from vines and big, beautiful, painted giraffes bobbed overhead. At the sight of the latter, he could not help but say in a hushed voice, “ _Look_ at ‘em, Tony, _look_ at,” only to laugh, quick and unexpected, as an entire troop of penguins appeared in front of him, twirling on ice like ballerinas.

Oh, it was madness, pure and simple madness. 

Leaning his cheek against the top of Tony’s head, Steve marveled at falling water that was not falling water at all, at the critters as they danced about, at the little Hawaiian dolls in their _leis_ , not flower-necklaces, he knew the word for it and it was _lei_. He let out a long breath as the song drifted apart, providing some breathing room, letting them take in the scenery almost in silence. 

Without opening his mouth, he uttered a silent, heartfelt, _Wow_.

Then he smiled as they rounded a corner and the melody swelled to a crescendo. And at last he could _hear_ the song, properly. Looking around the room, he tried to memorize it, the final glimpse of the music box, aware that he would never see it again. _Don’t let go_ , he thought, squeezing Tony’s knee gently, trying to convey without words his gratitude.

When they pulled into the docking station, Tony nearly had to pull him out of his seat, so suddenly loathe was he to get up and move on. It was not a conscious choice, but as soon as he realized his position, he gave himself the slightest of shakes and clambered to his feet, moving along. He chose not mention the magic of the music box, but Tony grinned like he knew. He even leaned up to kiss Steve on the cheek, like Steve had said something nice. 

And Steve thought, _I ought to say something nice_ , but there wasn’t anything for it. It was so silly words would have paled, and they’d both lived it, anyway.

So Steve shrugged wordlessly, falling into step alongside Tony. He helped Tony get his arms through the little blue backpack mid-stride as they reversed course, thankfully up a _straight_ walkway. Steve smiled as Bruce, several shades paler and shaking a little, fished his earplugs out of his pocket and replaced them in his ears. Utterly unconcerned with any of them, Clint strode ahead, whistling the tune loudly. Steve couldn’t help but grin like a loon, wishing he had half the talent, not caring how silly it would seem to join in.

 _It’s a small world, after all_.

The twenty-first century was growin’ on him, after all.

* * *

The theme of the day, Steve discovered, was _music_.

“If I’d’ve known there was this much music,” Steve said, as he ducked underneath a dripping faux-rock overhang, “I’d’ve listened to the songs, Tony.”

“Ruins the surprise,” Tony said, ducking underneath another drip zone without hesitation. His outermost shirt was fairly wet from previous encounters, but he had the waterproof undersuit on underneath it, which he claimed _wicks sweat_ , whatever _wicking sweat_ meant. 

Tony had also said it was also great at keeping cool. Steve had verified that it did, amazingly, stay cool in the middle of the day, no matter how hot. Something about the way the fibers were knit and _Yetis_ , although he couldn’t understand what a snow monster had to do with a t-shirt.

One way or another, he couldn’t complain about the damp, although he wondered privately why on God’s green Earth Tony Stark, who had a self-proclaimed distaste for all man-made bodies of water, including bathtubs, wanted to ride a _water slide_.

“Face your fears, champ,” he said, reading Steve’s mind, as Steve hesitated at a little open window to watch a log careen down the fifty-foot, forty-five-percent grade hill. No doubt about it: it was _steep_. And there was no question that a big splash was ready at the bottom, drenching happy customers in buckets of it.

It wasn’t like Tony was water-aversive, but he could definitely be _situationally_ water-aversive. Tony had no problem with showers, even enjoyed hot tubs, but the thought of splashing a bucket of water on him seemed too far. 

Steve knew that the difference between _facing one’s fears_ and _inducing panic_ could be marginal. Sometimes, a soldier needed a giddy-up pat-on-the-back to get him going. Other times, that same soldier needed to be pulled back before he stumbled straight into a landmine.

It seemed awful risky for something that was meant to be good fun. 

Bruce and Clint brought up the rear this time, and Steve wondered if they were having the same, _There’s no chickening in chickening out_ , thoughts that he was. Steve was nervous, no doubt about it, and it almost didn’t matter that little Timmy and his Ma were eagerly bouncing ahead of them, ready to get soaked. He’d never forgive himself if he let Tony get hurt in front of him.

So he waited until they had reached a wider path before tugging Tony aside, insisting, “We don’t _have_ to do this.”

Tony blinked at him. “What?” Fidgeting in Steve’s hold, he said shortly, “Don’t be stupid. It’ll be fun.”

Careful not to cage him in, Steve stepped closer to protect him from the ever-milling line of people and asked quietly, “For _you_?”

Tony blinked like he wasn’t quite following what Steve was saying. Steve didn’t want to _say_ out loud, _I don’t want you to freak out_ , because that would dampen Tony’s day. He knew that if Tony hadn’t put two-and-two together by now, well, maybe disaster really was imminent. Maybe it hadn’t _occurred_ to him. And that was exactly why Steve _had_ to say it, as forward as he could: “Knowin’ you? I just don’t think you’ll like it.”

Tony flicked his gaze forwards, expression distant, like he was processing the implications of proceeding. A long minute passed. Then:

“Ah,” Tony said, in a very different tone, that quiet voice that said, _I seem to have nail-gunned myself; would you be a dear and take me to the hospital?_ Fortunately, he hadn’t _actually_ nail-gunned himself this time around, only nearly done so. Fidgeting, Tony added, “Well.” Embarrassed, he admitted, “This is a problem.”

Waiting until there was a longer lull in human traffic, Steve leaned up, kissed him on the forehead, and promised, “No, it’s not.” Then, leaning into practicality as a way of centering them both, he pointed out, “There’s still two ways out. We’re not taking the long one.”

Sighing, Tony muttered, “I hate chicken exits.” Then he stepped closer, like he was trying to hide in Steve’s shirt. Steve held him there, wishing he could make it so that _pixie_ _dust_ could fix all the world’s ails. He’d never judge him—he’d be the worst sort of hypocrite if he tried. He still jumped at fireworks; they all had their demons.

Walking back down the narrow path was quickly dismissed as too hard to swallow. Curling his hand around Steve’s, Tony tugged him gently along the rest of the way, no longer with the same urgency of _let’s get to the front_. In less than three one-handed gestures, he communicated to Clint, _No-go_ , who thankfully did not need more correspondence to follow along, propelling Bruce after him.

The chicken exit was well-advertised: LAST CHANCE TO EXIT was marked not once, not twice, but three times in old Western style billboards before the loading dock, with a second path clearly delineated, a cast member manning a desk not far from the chicken exit’s entrance. Candidly taking the lead, hand tucked in Tony’s, who was doing a good impression of fading into the wallpaper, Steve asked the cast member, “People ever do this?”

“Disney is for everyone,” the cast member replied with the same on-camera poise as all her peers, “ _Splash Mountain_ isn’t. Some people just come along to enjoy the scenery.” Smiling, she said, “Have a wonderful day, Cap.” Then she offered the same two-fingered salute that civilians were fond of, not as ostentatious as a proper military hand-up but formal enough to convey real respect. “You too, Mr. Stark,” she added, with a nod at him. And as they caught up: “Dr. Banner.”

“If you don’t get my name right, I walk,” Clint warned, grinning underneath the real threat.

Wearing the same Disney smile, she nodded pointedly at his shirt. “It’s on the tag, Mr. Barton.” Clint looked down, but Steve saw underneath the _I’m Celebrating_ pronouncement just two letters: _Me_.

Clint laughed, that familiar hyena cackle that seemed muffled in the damp, narrow hallway. “Credit where credit is due. I’m still walking,” he added, ducking ahead of them. “Race you to the exit, boys,” he bid them, proceeding at a leisurely stroll.

“Have a magical day,” she replied.

Following in Clint’s wake, Bruce taking up the rear, Steve mused aloud, “ _I’m Celebrating Me_.”

“We’ve gotta work on his ego,” Tony muttered, coming out of his shell. “It’s getting out of hand. Next he’ll be signing autographs.” Shuddering, he moved closer, inviting Steve to wrap an arm around his back in the roomier side of the queue. It was kind of nice, a short walk to a spill-out area, intended to give guests a way to make their escape. “Top ten ways of getting kicked out of a Disney park: impersonating a Disney character,” he said.

“Hawkeye’s a Disney character?” Steve went on, scrunching up his nose, trying to imagine the blue bear and the guy who wore polka dot briefs to bed in the same family photo. “Can’t see it,” he decided. “Cannot see it.”

“Well, it is Disney,” Tony said. “Never say never.” 

Huffing, Steve kissed his temple, then pulled back, only so Tony could loop a hand through his arm properly, like a gentleman, for easier walking. “I’m sayin’ it. It’ll never happen.”

* * *

Tony wasn’t talking much, which Steve knew was a sign. Sitting next to him on the Monorail, he prompted, “Let’s take a break.”

“No, we have to go to Animal Kingdom,” Tony muttered. Even hidden behind his sunglasses, it was clear his eyes were shut. “It’s two o’clock. We don’t have time for a break.”

“What if,” Steve proposed, pulling him fully into his arms, glad that they had the car to their little clan, what with the middle-of-the-day hour, “we took a break anyway?”

“. . . I’m listening,” Tony mumbled against his collarbone. 

“I’m not saying _all day_ ,” Steve added, sliding the backpack off his shoulders and setting it on the blue seat beside them. “Or even _half the day_.”

“Uh huh,” Tony said, huddling under his chin. “Right. Five minutes, at least.”

Smiling to himself, Steve said, “At least.” Realizing he’d won the argument, he sat placidly for the rest of their short journey, looking out the window at the picture-perfect blue-skies day. From the cool interior of the Monorail, it was positively decadent. “This is the best way to travel,” he mused, breaking his own silence.

“Mm-hm,” Tony replied. “Super.”

Keeping his amusement to himself, recognizing he wouldn’t elicit any interesting tidbits at the moment, he blinked as the Monorail eased towards its next stop, announcing, _As we approach the Polynesian resort_. Tony slid out of his hold only once the doors opened, and they walked the short carpeted distance through humid outdoor Florida back to cool-air Orlando. Breath of the future, Steve thought, holding the blue bag in one hand and Tony’s in the other. 

Their room was in a different building, which Tony had rambled about for an extended period of time upon arrival, a monologue that had lasted no less than two hours and encompassed everything from the parks to their itinerary, but Steve had been more focused on the next twelve hours and the most bare bones’ necessities, hadn’t paid much attention to the _why_ behind the hotel that was divided into separate buildings.

One way or another, they tromped through the midday heat one last time before stepping into their refreshingly cool home-away-from-home. The door to their actual room had barely clicked shut before Tony was tugging him towards the bed impatiently. He wisely held his ground, long enough to _lock_ the door, figuring they’d have a third round of balloons if he didn’t.

Dropping the bag carefully on the floor, he watched in mild amusement as Tony sat on the bed, then slumped onto his side and curled up around one of their own pillows, because, _No hotel on Earth has pillows as good as mine_. He was snoring in ten seconds, nearly, and didn’t bother kicking Steve in the head for gently grabbing his foot to free him of his shoes. He worked his shirt and shorts next, careful but familiar. He didn’t bother with the undersuit—it was like a second skin, clung and could stick to the reactor if pried at the wrong angle. 

Tony never minded sleeping in it, anyway. Said it made him feel like Iron Man was one call away, which, sitting in a box in the corner, he was. Sure, it would be a few minutes to bring it to a park, as there was no way they’d lug the two-hundred-pound cartridge through security, let alone carry or wear it all day, but having it in reach was comforting. Heck, Steve’s shield was sitting right by the desk, just-in-case.

Having done his civic duty, Steve checked that the ambient temperature was still 69 degrees—Tony had set it; Steve hadn’t asked why—before tugging the loose sheets over Tony, making sure he was warm enough. 

Then Steve shucked his own clothes and sloughed off the Disney pixie dust in the shower, grateful for the chance to cool his own skin. He’d almost enjoyed the occasional cold shower back in his Army days, when the serum made him run warmer than the average fella and a dip in a cold river could do wonders, but nowadays, well—Tony wasn’t the only one with water-aversions, so he kept it on the warmer side of lukewarm, just enough to cool off.

Satisfied that he would no longer register as an active furnace, Steve redressed and munched down on two more of the mouse-eared shaped Rice Krispies treats, surprising himself with his own restored appetite. He didn’t have the sweet tooth Tony did, but food was food, and he couldn’t deny that the crunch and marshmallow goodness were both satisfying.

With his hunger curbed, he sat down at the desk to check on his shield. The private jet hadn’t exactly been a harrowing journey, but he hadn’t had a chance to check on the old girl, not since they’d arrived. With great care, he checked the straps, fussed over the front, made sure all was in working order.

Satisfied, he set it aside, grateful that it had survived the journey. Looking over the gap in the curtains leading out to the lawn, he considered sitting out on the balcony and reading for a bit, but then he’d be right back in the Floridian heat, and it wasn’t like he didn’t know what the outside was like, anyway.

Besides, there was a much cozier spot on the bed for him, and Steve could read just fine with Tony snoring quietly beside him. It was comforting, in its own way—a reminder that Tony was there and mostly well, would’ve been perfect but for that hunk of metal in his chest. Lying on top of the covers with one arm under his head and the other with book overhead, he left Tony unencumbered at his side, smiling when Tony automatically scooted closer anyway. Once Tony was pressed tightly against his side, Steve set the book aside and turned towards him, draping a leg over him, curving around him loosely.

Then Steve just held him for a good while, because even with a whole world of things out there to explore, there was nothing he’d rather do than just hold Tony Stark.

* * *

The door rattling pulled Steve out of a meditative-like sleep. Releasing Tony, he rolled over and approached the door on silent steps, flicking the lock and easing the door back, letting out a sigh when he saw—

“Where do you goddamn find these?” Steve demanded.

“Twenty bucks,” Clint said instantly, “cough up.” In one hand, he fisted no fewer than twenty balloons; in the other, he extended an open palm. Steve grumbled and said in a low voice:

“Keep it _down_ , all right?”

“I’m up,” Tony grunted. “I’m up.” He approached, almost tripping into the cluster of balloons affixed to the leg of the little table. “How many goddamn—oh no.”

“Well, I know what you two _haven’t_ been doing,” Clint said dryly. “Happiest men on Earth, right?”

Rumpling a hand over his face, Tony grumbled huskily, “Fuck off.” Then, blinking at Clint’s array incredulously, he added, “Are you trying to _drown_ us?”

“No,” Clint said, “I’m trying to fulfill a dream of mine, which is to fill an entire room with balloons. So—” Releasing them into the wild, he brought them into the room before releasing them. Steve easily caught the lot by the strings. Looking at Clint sternly, he added:

“We need _some_ free air space. Ain’t this a fire hazard?”

“Aww. Spoilsport,” Clint said, pulling out a Swiss army knife and offering, “Just say when.”

“How do you even _find_ these,” Tony grumbled, not a question. He took the lot from Steve and tied them off to a bedpost, letting them fan across the ceiling. Squinting upward dubiously, he added, “ _Is_ that a fire hazard? I don’t even—” Slipping around Steve and shutting the bathroom door behind himself, he called through it grumpily, “Don’t you dare pop my balloons. They’re my property and I’ll have your head if you try.”

Winking at Steve and pocketing the knife, Clint advised, “I’d put them in the corners, you know, that way there’s less chance of them clogging up a vent or something.”

“No. More,” Steve said, sternly, he felt.

Crossing his heart with his index finger, Clint assured, “Cross my heart, hope to die.” Rocking back and forth on his heels, lingering in the hallway while Steve held his ground, Clint added, “Banner’s out for the count, but Romanoff brought pizza she’s willing to share.”

“Really?”

Clint nodded. Steve’s stomach growled audibly. Sighing, he asked, “Is this a bribe?”

“No,” Clint said, perfectly composed. “But it is a great chance to inform you that I got FastPasses for _Flight of Passage_.”

The door to the bathroom creaked open. “Impossible,” Tony said, half out of his undersuit and no longer caring about his audience.

Pulling up his phone, Clint showed the slideshow of times page that Steve had seen on Tony’s, alongside four names: _Iron Man, Captain America, The Hawk,_ and _Black Widow_. And voila, there was a note, front-and-center: _Flight of Passage, 6:50 PM_.

“Sonuvabitch,” Tony said, wiggling out of his undersuit pants with much doing. “How?”

“Refresh, reload, rinse-and-repeat,” Clint said with a modest shrug, pocketing his phone. “I’m a man of conviction. I’ve heard it’s like flying. And since _you_ won’t fly me—” He grinned as Tony cut in:

“I have been _nothing_ to you but a _generous_ and _gracious_ pilot, you ungrateful—”

“Thank you, Clint; this is very nice, Clint.”

Making an aggrieved noise like he had been stabbed, Tony grunted, “Thank you, Clint. This is very nice, Clint.”

“I’d book _Soarin’_ , but cross-parks and all, I didn’t wanna rush it,” Clint added with a meaningful wink. “Can be a bit of a haul,” he told Steve, who must have looked too conspicuously blank. “You’ll see.” Then, stepping back, he added, “All right, I need some dough. You coming or you just gonna keep making murder eyes at me?”

“I’ll—” Looking over at Tony, Steve finished, “Be over in a bit.”

“Great. I’ll save you a slice.”

“Thanks, Clint.”

“ _That’s very nice of you, Clint_ ,” Clint added.

“Not gonna see a penny of that twenty-dollar-bill, Clint,” Steve replied, making him snort a laugh, walking off.

“Why’d we invite him again?” Tony asked as soon as the door closed, taking advantage of Steve’s new proximity to hold his shoulder for balance as he worked the pants off his legs properly. “Remind me.”

“More the merrier?” Steve tried, picking him up under the arms and setting him on the edge of the tub, finishing the task for him, no longer worried about snagging the reactor in the process. Glancing up, he added, “What’s _Flight of Passage_?”

A _gleam_ entered Tony’s eye. “Hottest ticket in town,” he said, with no trace of irony. “Even I couldn’t book it.” Shrugging, he added, “Not that I _tried_ , mind you, or I could’ve. Nothing I can’t do that I set my mind to.”

“’Course not.” Glancing meaningfully at the shower, Steve waited for Tony’s nod to straighten and retrieve Tony’s bag, fishing around for the clear pack of specialized tape that they used to cover the reactor, in order to make sure that nothing happened to it under water. “Nothing you can’t do, Tony. Nothin’.”

“Aww.” Tony took the clear roll from him and unraveled a strip, plastering it over the reactor. “Now you’re flattering me. And you could be eating pizza.”

“I could,” Steve said somberly. It was worth the rueful discomfort of a growling stomach for the way Tony smiled up, shucking off his briefs and flicking on the shower instead. “I don’t think they need me to eat pizza.”

“Think the only support you can lend here is moral,” Tony said mournfully, looking at the size of the little shower-bath combo and holding out a hand to test the water before clambering in. Aloud, he mused, “Now, I’m not saying a rainforest shower is a _necessity_ , but I am saying that it’s next to godliness. Would you mind?” he added, wagging the little white soap bar over the top. “I’m scatterbrained today, I keep forgetting shit. I think it’s the eight pounds of marshmallows I ate earlier.”

“Couldn’t’ve been more than two-and-a-half,” Steve replied dryly, retreating to his bag and retrieving his soaps. “What’s the magic word?” he added.

“Give me now?” Tony deadpanned, and Steve huffed and passed him the soaps.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he said. “Anything else I can do for ya? Shine your shoes?”

“Mm, fluff the pillows? Water the plants?”

“Don’t think any plants would last with all these balloons. Got a real canopy goin’ on in here,” Steve observed, speaking over the shower as he leaned back into the main room. “He blow these up himself, d’you think?”

“Dear, they wouldn’t float if he did.”

Frowning in confusion— _of course they would, Tony, it’s air, ain’t it?_ —Steve didn’t have time to state his obvious counterclaim before Tony elaborated, “When we breathe, we inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide. Right?”

“Right.” Steve knew that much; it was in one of the kids’ science books that Tony had recommended for him. He’d said that science books made for children were the best sources of general information on the planet, and he hadn’t been wrong: they were full of know-how and need-to-know knowledge, including tidbits like _water is a molecule with three atoms, two hydrogen and one oxygen_. Plus, they came with pictures—lots and lots of pictures. Nothing like a picture-book to make a concept stick.

“So,” Tony went on, switching soaps, “when we blow up a balloon—anything, really—we’re putting mostly carbon dioxide into it.”

“Makes sense,” Steve said.

“CO2,” Tony said, making the sort of quantum leap Steve could follow, working alongside him for five years, partners in nearly every way, “is heavier than most of what makes up air—oxygen, nitrogen, etc. It actually sinks. So, if you were to breathe into a balloon and tie it off, guess what would happen?”

“It would sink?” Steve echoed incredulously.

“Mm-hm.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“If I put air _into_ a balloon, it would sink?”

“Bingo.”

“That’s—”

“The magic of balloons,” Tony said. “Ever been to a party, tried to blow them up yourself? They’re sad. They just loll on the floor. What you want is a tank full of compressed helium gas. Then you can inflate the balloon properly. And since helium is lighter than oxygen—”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. Smaller.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “Helium is smaller than oxygen.”

“Right. It’s a smaller atom. And so helium atoms . . . they kind of _float_ on oxygen. They want to go to the top. Which is why, if you let a balloon go—”

“It goes on forever,” Steve finished. “Wow.” Tony shut off the shower. Without being asked, Steve retrieved a towel from his own bag, which had originally been packed noticeably more lightly than Tony’s, and brought it over. “I never . . . I thought air was just . . . air. You know?”

“Most people don’t know that the Earth rises every morning, not the sun,” Tony said in the casually mind-boggling way of his that Steve was used to after five years of being hitched to his wagon. “Trust me, you’re ahead of the curve. You _want_ to know stuff. I like that. It’s . . . endearing.” Taking the towel, he dried off, adding, “Rare. Rare curiosity. Fuck, my back hurts. What’d we ride today? _Space Mountain_? It was _Space Mountain_ , wasn’t it?”

“How do you . . . _know_ so much?” Steve asked, almost rhetorically. Because it was a wonder. A wonder that billy goats could dance to music and rockets could almost soar to the Moon and eight pounds of marshmallows could be consumed all in one place.

Tony appeared from the stall, hair ruffled and eyes almost boyishly wide, towel around his waist. “Well,” he began, and then: “I don’t.” Which was a surprise. “I want to,” he went on. “Wanna know everything, you know? Be the next—be the _first_ somebody. I don’t want to be the next Newton, or Einstein, I wanna be . . . I want to know it all, be the next big leap.”

Fishing around on his own for clothes in his bag, he muttered, “I don’t wanna be known, I just wanna know it. Everything. I wanna know everything, down to the last star.” He dressed efficiently, but it was clear from how he bowed that his back _was_ sore, slowed movements, gentled movements. “Wanna know . . . how it all works. And that stuff—you know, the stuff that you wanna know, the balloon floating stuff—that’s where it all begins. You gotta plant your spade somewhere, dig in, get a toehold.”

Waiting until Tony straightened, Steve stepped forward and hugged him, feeling Tony melt against his own chest, smelling soft and warm and utterly of home. “Gotta break earth, somewhere,” Tony mumbled, tucking his own hands into Steve’s pockets. “That’s how you get stuff done. Step-by-step. Not in leaps, just . . . little bounds.”

“Want me to help?” Steve murmured in an interjectory tone, rubbing his back with both hands gently, keeping his voice low, unpresumptuous, _I’ll follow your lead._

Tony sighed, said, “God, I’d love it if you would,” and stripped the t-shirt over his head. He peeled the tape off the arc reactor belatedly, then flopped face-first on the bed, adding, “Just be nice, these old bones ain’t what they used to be.”

“Still got so much on you, Tony,” Steve said, kneeling up over his back and gently, gently digging the heels over his palms in, downward, brush strokes, long strokes, not painting a picture but defining something so much more important to him. “So much . . . life, so many years.”

“Don’t make me nostalgic,” Tony mumbled into the mattress, deliberately refusing to talk directly to him. “Happiest place on Earth, you can’t make me.”

“I thought it was the most magical?” Steve replied, pressing upward, eliciting a soft, barely-there groan.

“Semantic,” Tony groaned, before letting him knead in peace for a while.

Hands gliding over smooth skin, Steve sorted out the little knots he encountered, points of tension he could feel like little hitches in a wind-up clock. It wasn’t a skill he’d woken up knowing, wasn’t something he’d ever imagined himself mastering, but Tony, who routinely carried two-hundred-pounds of armor on his shoulders and was nearly fifty— _forty-eight, now_ —years old, deserved to melt, to experience the relaxation of being loose and limber. 

Steve’s own muscles locked up from time to time, and he knew the sort of headache and general malaise it could inspire to ignore for too long, how a sore back could nest and fester for a long time, making life difficult. A long hot bath could help, but Tony hated baths, didn’t have the patience or the desire for them—and was quietly terrified of them, beside. 

So Steve learned how to be good to him instead, to knead soft skin with softer touches, so light they were barely-there, using pressure only when needed with great precision. It was one of the perks of being so refined: he had become, in Tony’s words, a masterful masseuse. He thought of himself as an amateur at best, certainly not up to snuff with those who did it for a living, but the fact that he could make Tony melt like warm butter was all he wanted in the world. 

Tony deserved to be pain-free. Whether he said it or not, Steve could see the tension that was like pain, and even small pain, Steve knew, was still pain.

So, Steve worked methodically and patiently, in no rush whatsoever, listening to his relaxed breathing. He was hyper-aware of it, in fact, listening not only to its comforting cues but for any hitch or falter that might indicate a misstep, a repressed complaint. 

It was a well-known fact that Tony was terrible at telling him off for small grievances, even going steady for five years. He seemed to believe that stepping on one’s toes was just part of the package, that Steve could be clumsy and shouldn’t be expected to do better. Well, Steve _could_ and he _would_ , dammit, because nobody deserved the absolute best more than Tony Stark.

When Tony finally hummed and shifted underneath him, just the slightest impatient fidget, Steve smoothly unfolded, sitting next to him instead, allowing Tony to roll over onto his side. The tense lines that had been forming around his closed eyes had eased completely. For the first time in hours, Tony looked truly relaxed, as happy as he’d been when he’d hugged that strange blue bear. Loved. Simply, honestly loved by somebody.

Swallowing, Steve sat back on his heels, making Tony blink big Bambi eyes up at him. Then Tony smiled, lazy and satisfied. “I’d give you five stars,” Tony murmured, “but then I’d have to share you. And I’m too selfish for that.”

“I’m all yours,” Steve said honestly.

Tony hummed, rolling languorously upright, exhaling deeply as he did so. “Oh, God, you melted me,” he said, but he was smiling as he said it, reaching up to press a hand to his closed eyes. Not in pain, but simple amusement. “I’d do unspeakable things just to keep you around as a masseuse.”

“’m not that special at it,” Steve assured. “I’m just . . .” _Here_. Shrugging, he finished, “Happy to do it.” And he meant it.

Lowering his hand and looking at him, Tony smirked, then pawed around for his own discarded t-shirt, slinging it back on, forgoing the undersuit. He picked up his own phone, checked the time—3:21 PM—and mused, “Mm. Not a lot of time.”

“For what?” Steve asked, genuinely curious. _Pizza?_ he thought without saying, hoping it wasn’t writ too largely on his face as his stomach, traitorously, growled. He wasn’t usually hungry every two hours, but Disney was—well, it was a _lot_ , and the excitement and euphoria and glitz and glamor, it demanded something in exchange. He supposed it was its own kind of “stress-eating,” as Tony liked to call it, but like Tony, he felt nothing but relaxed. He watched Tony yawn and explain:

“MG—Hollywood Studios.” Frowning thoughtfully, Tony said, “Mm. _Toy Story_ _Land_. Don’t imagine that’s a biggie on your list.”

“What’s a _Toy Story_?” Steve asked honestly.

“Exactly,” Tony replied, smirking. “The main _Star Wars Land_ is still under construction, so that’s a bust.” Plucking at the covers, he curled up briefly against the pillows, not to sleep but just to lounge, and mused, “ _Rock ‘N’ Roller Coaster_ is A-tier.”

“Sounds . . . exhilarating,” Steve said carefully.

Tony shrugged, then said, “Zero to sixty in two-point-eight seconds. Only problem is, there’s no windshield.” He reached up to rub his chest, right over the reactor, and added, “It’s supposed to be a thrill ride. I like thrill rides.”

But Steve was immediately team _veto_. “Sounds like it’d hurt.”

“Well. Not a strong guy like you,” Tony said with a rueful smile.

Softly, Steve said, “You’re the strongest guy I know, Tony. And no hunk of metal could ever change that. That—it _shows_ how strong you are. You survived it.”

Rubbing the arc reactor unconsciously, Tony stared at him for a long moment, then went on calmly, almost to himself, “ _Tower of Terror_ doesn’t have the same appeal when it could knock the car battery in your chest loose, does it?”

“S’like the dame in the park said,” Steve said quietly, earnestly. “Disney is for everyone. Maybe this ‘Hollywood Studios’ isn’t for us.”

“ _Great Movie Ride_ ,” Tony drawled, like a last petition. “That’s a classic.”

Huffing, Steve acknowledged, “You know me, Tony, I’m a whizz at cultural references.”

“Well, you could learn,” Tony said, smiling again, lowering his hand to the bed. “You really don’t wanna go?”

“Tony,” Steve said, shuffling forward so he could lie next to him, letting Tony curl his fingers around his arm, self-comfortingly, “I’m happy to do what you wanna do. But, no. I’m not married to anything here. If we stayed here for the rest of the weekend, I’d be perfectly happy.”

Eyes crinkling around the corners with his smile, Tony said, “Careful. We have guests to entertain.”

Huffing, Steve replied, “Sure, _now_ —” as his stomach growled again.

Laughing, honest and earnest, Tony sat up, patted him on the flank, and said, “All right, my melancholy has kept you from your meal long enough. C’mon, soldier. Hey, if you want, there’s still at least five Rice Krispies treats in my bag.”

“I was promised pizza,” Steve said solemnly, following him.

“And you will get your pizza,” Tony assured, kissing him on the cheek. “It is nice. You know. The park. Not all doom and gloom. But—”

“Just not for us?”

“Maybe not now,” Tony said, sliding under his arm. “You got the key?” he added, rolling his eyes as he dumped out the four remaining Rice Krispies treats and slung the now-empty backpack around his shoulders. “Stuff?”

“Mmhm,” Steve said, double-checking his pockets. “Key, wallet, kitchen sink.”

“Ooh, can’t forget that.” Looking back at the balloons, he added, “I’m gonna feel really, really bad if we burn this place down with our festivities.”

“Want me to see if I can reconfigure them?”

Shaking his head, Tony said, “Honestly, I think it’s as good as it’s gonna get. But we do have to give Barton the talk if he shows up with any more.”

“ _Way_ ahead of you,” Steve said, plucking the birthday Mickey ears from the pile of Rice Krispies treats and popping them on Tony’s head. “Don’t forget that. Keep your head from getting sunburned.”

“Ah, yes, my impeccable Italian complexion, in constant danger of burning.”

“Just like the luck of the Irish,” Steve replied, smiling ruefully. “It suits you.”

“Does it?” Plucking his dark sunglasses from the dresser, Tony added, “How about now?”

Sliding them off, Steve kissed him, holding his face gently in both hands, feeling Tony relax against him. “Better,” he said, looking at dark brown eyes with a smile.

“Maybe,” Tony said, reaching up to pluck the cap off and tuck it away into the bag. “Maybe.”

“I’ll take maybe,” Steve said breezily, content.

And he was—more so when they arrived at Clint and Natasha’s room, fully halfway down the hall, with not one, not two, but _five_ boxes of fresh hot dough awaiting.

“Hey,” Clint greeted, sitting on one of the two beds, flipping through channels on the television and munching on hot dough. “Just starting to think I was gonna have to warmer-drawer these on the balcony.”

“Natasha, you are a goddess,” Tony said, bowing in earnest to her.

Sitting up squarely on her own mattress, Natasha slid four whole boxes towards them and asked simply, “So—what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Tony repeated, taking one and standing directly in front of the TV, blocking Clint’s view. “Uh, _Flight of Passage_ , 6:50.”

“Jagweed,” Clint grumbled.

“So close,” Tony replied. They had a double-or-nothing bet running with Clint on the profanity front; insofar, he’d yet to crack, but Tony had insisted that he would.

“ _Everest?_ ” Natasha asked.

“Hell yeah,” Clint replied.

“I was thinkin’ more _Kilimanjaro_ ,” Tony said. “Steve’s never seen real animals.”

“I’ve seen real animals,” Steve huffed, opening the topmost box and carefully shelling out three slices before stacking them into one slice. “Been to the Bronx Zoo, the National Zoo—”

“All right, you two can go to the real Zoo, we’re going to _Everest_ ,” Clint replied.

“Great,” Tony said, sitting on Clint’s bed and shoving his feet aside. “Make way for Prince Ali.”

“Fabulous he,” Clint grunted, moving his feet.

“Ali Ababwa,” Tony finished, plopping down cheerfully.

“ _Aladdin_?” Steve said.

“He _can_ be taught,” Tony said dryly, smiling at him before he took a bite of his own pizza. “Old dog, meet new tricks.”

Not deigning to respond, Steve took a far more polite seat near the edge of Natasha’s bed. She rested her feet on his back, which he supposed was fair recompense for invading her personal space. “So. Animal Kingdom next?” Clint said, sounding pleased.

“I tried, but Steve vetoed Hollywood Studios,” Tony said, without a hint of sarcasm.

It wasn’t entirely incorrect, so Steve let it slide, pointing out after slices six-through-nine, “Gotta see those real animals.”

“They sure are real,” Clint said.

“Speaking of real,” Natasha chimed in, removing her feet, apparently satisfied that he’d passed the test. “Where’s Banner? I haven’t seen him since we landed.”

“Oh, he’s done-so,” Clint said, amused. “ _Do Not Disturb_ card and everything. Text at your peril.”

“How do _you_ have his number?” Tony asked, sounding vaguely offended. “He’s _my_ friend.”

“I have everyone’s number,” Clint said, like it was quite obvious, rolling his eyes and leaning forward to steal a slice of his pizza from Tony’s box. To be fair, it was _all_ his pizza. “It’s for intelligence.”

“What he said,” Natasha said dryly, shuffling over to sit next to Steve. He offered her the box, but she just shook her head, assuring, “I had my fill.”

“I still wanna know how _Barton_ has _Banner’s_ number,” Tony huffed.

“Card-carrying members of the B-A club,” Clint said.

“Cute,” Tony replied.

“Thought so,” Clint replied. Reaching for another slice, he added when Tony pulled the box back, “I _bought_ that.”

“And it’s _mine_ now,” Tony grumbled. “Steal from Steve, he loves sharing.” 

“He’s too far,” Clint grunted, but he did lean across the island between them and accept the box Steve handed him. “See, this is generosity,” he told Tony, who huffed again. “This is camaraderie.”

“Never too late to fly economy home,” Tony said darkly.

“Never known a lovelier guy,” Clint said immediately, “than that Tony Stark.”

“That’s more like it.”

“Glad we’re getting along,” Steve grumbled. 

“Of course,” Clint said. “Can’t help but get along on somebody’s birth—”

Tony chucked Steve’s now-empty pizza box at him. “No,” he said pointedly.

“Denial can only get you so far,” Clint said, holding up his hands in surrender. “All right, denial is your right, it’s your bir—” He managed to catch the empty pizza box this time, setting it off to the side and adding, “Can’t stop me now.”

“Can,” Steve growled.

“All right, Pops,” Clint sighed. “You know, between the two of you, there’s not a supervillain in this world that can gain traction. Stop ‘em right out the gate.”

“You implying you are one?” Tony asked dryly.

“I’m just saying, I’d look _amazing_ in a cape.”

* * *

Real Animal World—the _Animal Kingdom_ —was more than a haul: it was an adventure-and-a-half to get to.

At first, it seemed straightforward enough: short, humid walk to the lobby; brisk air-conditioned climb to the second level; now-familiar security stop, along with also-familiar bids to, “Enjoy yourselves, Avengers;” then the four-stop Monorail hop, which included embarkation and disembarkation pauses at the Grand Floridian resort, the Magic Kingdom, the Contemporary resort, and finally their destination, the Transportation and Ticket Center. They jetted down a long walk to the busing area, where they found signage marked ANIMAL KINGDOM.

It was there that their Disney luck ran out, as there was no huffing metal steed awaiting them. 

While clean white benches awaited them in the shade, Steve was not surprised in the slightest when Tony tapped him on the back of the shoulders. Being strong of body and uncaring of potential gawkers, Steve let him hop up, looping his hands under his calves to hold him in place. 

He walked absentmindedly down the path as Tony informed him, “They’re on a twenty-minute schedule. Hopefully, we’re on the low end.” One arm looped loosely around Steve’s neck, arc reactor pressing against his back, Tony flipped through his phone absentmindedly, adding, “Not a Disney trip 'til your bus is late, huh?”

“Hm,” Steve agreed.

A spell passed in agreeable quiet. Drifting farther from the landing zone but leaving Natasha and Clint to lollygag by the white columns and shade, Steve blinked as a phone was thrust suddenly under his nose.

“I’m amazing,” Tony told him, screen clearly showing, _Expedition Everest, 4:40_. There were just two names associated with it: _The Hawk_ and _Black Widow_.

“Gift to mankind,” Steve agreed, squeezing his calves and resuming his slow march across the pavement. “Nice of you.”

“Thanks, dude!” Clint hollered at them.

Holding up the hand that had been looped around Steve’s neck in an OK sign, Tony added, “Better get me something nice!” Clint laughed. Steve smiled and perked up when he saw a bus clearly marked ANIMAL KINGDOM approaching from the distance. “That’s us,” he said, letting Tony down.

The bus was positively frigid after the middle day heat. Steve shivered like a pup in winter for a good five minutes, wishing he could open a window without breaking etiquette.

Thankfully, the bus wasn’t crowded on the incoming trip—apparently four in the afternoon was not a popular time to be embarking for the Animal Kingdom—and so, Tony squeezed against him, offering his own warmth. It was still a long journey, but at least the shivering died down.

Clearly feeling the length of the journey, Tony fidgeted next to him, playing with his hand for a short while before getting up and walking the length of the bus with the bars overhead, monkeying his way across, never one to sit still for terribly long. 

Evidently driven to some sort of desperation, Tony lingered in Clint’s corner for a spell, leaning forward to see what was on his phone before giving up on it as a source of entertainment and returning to Steve’s side with an impatient huff, adding, “Next time, I’m bringing the Petaminx.” It was a Rubik’s cube—at least, it was kin to the Rubik’s cubes that Steve had seen in the children’s science textbooks—with over 1,000 pieces. Turning his head and pressing a brief, comforting kiss to Tony’s temple, Steve assured:

“Next time.”

They didn’t pull up to the park ‘til half-past-the-hour. With a hiss and sigh and lowering of gears, the bus sank to the curb, and they disembarked. Steve had never been more grateful to abandon modern amenities as they stepped into warm, humid Florida, feeling like a lizard who had just survived the journey.

 _Old boy_ , he chided himself, shaking off to get the lingering feeling of air coolant off. There were plenty of older folk there to blend with, should he be openly accused; wasn’t like the park was only for the young, as he’d first thought when he’d heard the proposal.

With nary a minute to lose, Natasha simply said, “Six-forty-five, _Avatar_?” and Tony nodded in agreement. Then they zipped off at a clip that was neither run nor walk for the turnstiles, leaving Steve and Tony behind in front of the gates.

At a much more leisurely pace, they descended on the park. “Upon reflection,” Tony mused, “perhaps the 5:10 ride slot would have been more generous.” He tucked his hand around Steve’s arm, walking through greenery alongside him.

“Clint walks a 3.8 mile,” Steve parroted, because apparently that was a good clip. He himself could run upwards of seventy miles an hour in a real hurry, but that was pushing it pretty hard. Thirty was more like a good running clip. With Tony at his side setting the pace, they ambled quite leisurely through the park. “They’ll be fine,” he assured.

“If not, standby’s only 45 minutes,” Tony said, before pocketing his phone. “Plenty of time for _Avatar_.”

Nodding once, Steve looked around and asked, “What is this place, anyway?” Because there wasn’t much to look at, rides or shops or much of anything besides _green_.

“Animal Kingdom,” Tony replied, vaguely amused, guiding him towards the side of the path, away from the outgoing flow of human traffic. “Apparently the Imagineers wanted people to experience plants.”

“Huh,” Steve mused, looking around. “Well, they seem quite real.”

“Just you wait,” Tony said, and Steve wondered if his leg was being pulled until, a long winding stroll and a short, outgoing-traffic-heavy bridge away, they spotted an enormous, improbably large, intricately-carved _tree_. 

“Is that . . . real?” he asked.

Tony didn’t try to pull his leg: “No,” he said simply. “It’s the _Tree of Life_.”

“Ah,” Steve said, feigning understanding and staring at it. “How?”

Tony huffed, tugging him towards the left-hand path. “Disney magic,” was all he said.

“Ah,” Steve repeated. “Of course.”

“You gonna walk and talk or gawk and walk?” Tony asked, amused.

Looking around, surprised to find himself suddenly in a Disney theme park, complete with shops and people partaking in confections and in the distance, an honest-to-God faux- _mountain_ , Steve said, “Feels like I hopped down a rabbit hole.”

“Then this’ll actually seem pretty normal,” Tony assured, tugging him along. “C’mon. It’s a hike.”

Glad it was a hike on foot, Steve curled an arm around his waist under the blue backpack instead and said, “No rush. We got time.”

“It’s a hike,” Tony repeated, amused, as they dawdled. “Sure you don’t wanna take a hike?” he added, nodding over his shoulder in the opposite direction, towards the distant mountain. 

Turning to look at it, eagle eyes easily discerning a car pulling up a steep hill—with a flute and everything—before an identical one ricocheting down the big hill—Steve just said dryly:

“You know, I’ve had enougha those for one lifetime. Besides.” Squeezing Tony’s waist gently, he added, quietly but undeterrably, “It’s my guy’s birthday. Can’t miss that.”

“I’ll let that one slide,” Tony uttered charitably, squeezing him back briefly. “Want a dole whip? I could go for an ice cream.”

“Sure,” Steve said, easy, breezy. “You know me.”

“Least food-motivated person I’ve ever met,” Tony agreed, tugging him towards a short line in front of a rugged-looking stall, turning so he could hug him properly, conveniently hiding his face more from the crowds. 

Nobody at Disney seemed to care beyond the occasional well-trained cast member. Outside the uniform, even in hometown _New York_ , people rarely accosted Steve; Steve Rogers wasn’t that _interesting_ , not like Thor or _the Hulk_. 

Steve Rogers was an old timer, an outsider to modern society. He couldn’t hold an interesting conversation to save his life, didn’t have all the cards. People picked up on his ignorance and discomfort, so they either saw him and wanted to rub his hands for good luck or they moved on. They were content to see him on the news in uniform. Only then did _everybody_ want a piece of charismatic Captain America.

It was harder with Tony, who didn’t have a mask to take off: his reputation was widespread and people had been in love with Iron Man for over a decade, since his starstruck debut. Tony Stark couldn’t wander New York City without being recognized, and unlike Steve Rogers, people were quite happy to bother him for an autograph or a long conversation with the best conversationalist in the New York area. (Hell, Steve’d say the world, but he knew he was biased—still say it, even if it _was_ biased.) 

People knew Tony Stark had money to burn and they were happy to ignore his _I’m going steady with somebody_ energy in the hopes that he’d invite them home for the night. They were in love with his money and magnetism as much as his personality, and while Steve would be hypocritical to say he didn’t love Tony’s charm as much as the next person, he certainly didn’t hold onto him in the hopes of private jets and surprise trips to Disney World. He did so because there was nobody he’d rather hold, and Tony Stark was everything and so much _more_ , and so much kinder than anybody ever gave him a lick of credit for.

Like how he let Steve have the first bite of his own dole whip. Steve tried to point out it was Tony's because Tony said, “No, it’s your first, I want you to experience it.” And so, Steve took a bite—and he knew Tony hated it when Steve bit his ice cream, but Steve didn’t have time for things, not the way Tony spent time on things, so he was impatient about time management—and it was lemony and bright, a summer fair in ice cream form.

“Wow,” he said, handing it back, pulling him aside, away from the flow of traffic that couldn’t give less of a damn about them. That, _that_ was Disney magic—engrossing, to the point where nobody batted an eyelash at them. They had their own schedules, their own needs: they had to get to the faux-mountain in five minutes or _else_ , a forty-five minute standby line did seem awfully long, especially for a guy like Tony, who didn’t stand still for two minutes if he could avoid it, pacing and parading and organizing, constantly.

It was magical to watch. It could be exasperating—sometimes, stillness was _good_ —but Steve loved him, every way. Heck, Steve was an ice cream biter; he couldn’t complain about bad habits. He took another bite when Tony offered it, and it was very sweet.

They got two more dole whips, different flavors, and Tony barely took more than a bite of each, but he seemed happy, like he never got three kinds of ice cream in _one_ sitting, and it occurred to Steve that he didn’t, usually. It wasn’t considered classy, and he was Captain America, he could get away with his never-ending appetite, but Tony Stark couldn’t justify his eternal love of ice cream the same way when he knew he wouldn’t clear the plate.

Heart aching with fondness, Steve munched on his third dole whip and thought, _Buy you all the ice cream in the park, Tony. Just ask_.

But Tony tugged on his arm, insisting that they needed to get a move on, so he did, and it was _still_ a ten-minute walk to the Safari.

They weren’t kidding about the size of the parks, Steve thought, half-amused, half-grateful for the timely pause, aware that it was Tony’s way of saying, _Let’s take a break_ without saying it. He never conceded, never showed a hint of his soft underbelly to anybody he didn’t trust, and he certainly didn’t expose his weaknesses. He found ways to transform them, to disguise them.

Sweetness still cool in his mouth, Steve said, “I like Disney.”

Tony looked at him, unexpected pleasure in his expression as he blinked once, then smiled back, a secret smile: _Of course you do, I picked it_. He squeezed Steve’s arm and said nothing, leading the way.

Then, just as they neared the station marked KILIMANJARO SAFARIS, he added, almost too quickly to be heard, “Me, too.”

* * *

“Hello, or, as we like to say in Swahili, _Jambo!_ My name is Lea, and I’ll be your Safari driver for today.” 

Roaring forward a short distance, Lea added cheerfully, “Now, as we embark, feel free to take as many pictures as you’d like. But hold onto your cameras! We won’t be able to retrieve any lost items once we’re underway, and that includes cell phones, cameras, sunglasses, and Mickey ears. If you have any open food containers, I’d ask that you please put those away at this time, for the safety of our animals. Fido doesn’t eat popcorn, and our hippos don’t, either!”

Zipping around a bend in the road on the heels of another truck, she stopped and went on, “Now, for _your_ safety, please remain seated and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. It can get a bit bumpy out there, so parents, feel free to hold little ones on your lap. However, please don’t pick them up for better viewing—there will be plenty of animals on either side of the vehicle!”

Kicking the car into gear, she moved forward steadily, adding over the grinding gears of tires of muddy tracks, “If you look above your heads, you can find a list of animals you might see on our safari today. Since it’s near the end of the day, many of our animals tend to be more active. The word for that is _crepuscular_ —it means active at dawn and dusk! 

“Those animals that are active during the daytime are called _diurnal_. A prime example of a diurnal animal is the Congolese or forest giraffe, which you can find to your immediate right. It’s most well known as the Okapi!”

Steve, dawdling with an arm around Tony’s shoulders, looked to the right just as the vehicle ground to a halt and promptly beheld the strangest animal he had ever seen. 

It had nearly the same dimensions as a horse, but it was like a horse drawn by a man who had only ever heard of horses before. Something was _wrong_ with this horse—its neck a touch too long, its ears a touch too wide. Like the rest of it, its black snout was vaguely equestrian, but it had a large splash of dusty white ringing it as if, muzzled, it had shoved its face into a trough of milky powder. And its _colors_ : its sable brown coat and zebra-like patterns on its back haunches and forelegs were astonishingly rich in color. 

The longer he looked, the more bizarre it seemed. It wasn’t just long-necked: it had two little horns protruding from its forehead, and as he watched, it tamely extended a long blue tongue towards a tree, nibbling at a thatch of low-hanging leaves. Lea said something about non-toxic plants, but he just could not get over the _look_ of the thing. 

_This is a real animal_ , he thought, because it almost defied description that a small brown _forest giraffe_ existed.

 _The boys would never believe me_ , he thought, amused, bemused, as the Safari truck motored on, looking back at the Okapi, idly wondering why people didn’t ride _them_. What a statement piece—forget a white stallion. _Look at my forest giraffe_.

Huffing a laugh, he followed Lea’s direction to a black rhinoceros on his left. Although he _knew_ what a rhino looked like, had seen pictures, it was still shocking to see it in person. Built like a living tank, with a weight to it even from a short distance, he was impressed at its heft. Sure, he knew elephants were grand, but the _horn_ on that thing, by _God_ , it could kill a man. Aloud, he could not help but muse, “Is this . . . safe?”

“No,” Tony said, leaning his cheek on Steve’s shoulder serenely.

Steve was pretty sure he was kidding, but he may have nearly dented the bar when they rattled over a bridge that seemed fit to break, pointing out, “Oughtta fix that up.”

“It’s called ambience, dear,” Tony said, patting him on the knee reassuringly.

He was proud of himself for recognizing the lions and zebras, the crocodiles and _elephants_ , telling Tony with no small amount of interest, “Elephants? Really? They got elephants?” It wasn’t all the time you saw an _elephant_ , after all. Which was ironic, he supposed, since it was one of the only “real animals” he _had_ seen before—he swore they had made up some of the antelopes, at least resisting the temptation to stand and examine the little board more critically, confirm that they hadn’t just painted zebra stripes over the horse, so to speak. 

But seeing them, a whole _herd_ of them, even a baby—oh, a baby, a sweet little calf hiding right behind its mother’s legs, he told Tony, “Look, Tony—see it?” Steve had great eyes, eagle eyes, Tony called ‘em, and he knew the mother and calf weren’t actually that far as the cab—safari—driver pointed them out, had stopped the vehicle for the whole car to see—but he needed Tony to _see_ ‘em. What a sight, a Ma and her baby elephant. 

Then he noticed a second pair, another Ma and her calf—noticed three calves in total, marveling aloud, “How’d they get their hands on that many elephants?”

“Disney magic,” Tony said, which made him laugh. Figured.

Tony, who fidgeted on thirty-minute bus rides, clearly knew everything about it, had surely seen hippos and crocodiles before and found the experience if not outright mundane at least far from magical, but he was patient as they stopped to let the other tourists in front of them take pictures while Lea talked about all the made-up antelopes and their babies, which made Steve irrationally warm, like the made-up antelope calf was part of _their_ family.

Steve couldn’t help it; he liked animals. There was just something nice about ‘em—dogs never cared how thick your accent was or how strong your arm was, they just wanted a good rub; and cats were company on a cold night; and elephants were just, _wow_ —and to see ‘em so . . . free, and happy, with babies, it was real sweet. Real sweet. No iron bars here, no peanuts thrown at sad faces. Why, it looked like a real savanna. 

_How?_ he didn’t ask, knowing the answer.

 _Disney magic_.

They disembarked. Steve said, “Those are real animals, Tony.”

Tony replied, “Mm-hm.”

“They're out there.” He pointed back towards the savanna. “Right now.”

“That’s how object permanence works, dear,” Tony said, but he was smiling.

“Isn’t that just . . . the most magical thing you’ve ever seen?” Steve said, unable to define it. “That they’re real? And living right there? That we can go see ‘em?”

“They have _more_ animals,” Tony said conspiratorially, tugging on his sleeve. 

“Wow,” Steve replied sincerely.

* * *

They’d beaten a fairly straight path down towards their final destination before pausing to sit on a park bench and watch some little birds walk by. Google helpline operator Siri helpfully identified them as, “White Ibises.” 

“I can’t believe Google knew that one,” Tony mused, hunched over his knees and trying not to breathe too hard, even though he was clearly struggling. 

They’d been moving at a good clip, having crossed the five o’clock hour, and Steve hadn’t been paying enough attention to the toll it was taking on him until Tony simply tugged him over to a bench, sat down firmly beside him, and directed at the little white animal, “Identify that bird.”

So Steve had done the logical thing: _Okay Google, what is a white bird that lives in Florida?_

Rubbing Tony’s knee, Steve said softly, “We don’t have to stay.”

“Coward,” Tony huffed, a little breathless, and aw, geez, Steve had mucked up. Steve knew that he walked too fast for most folks to comfortably keep up with, which was why he let Tony set the pace. But Tony was moving with the flow of human traffic, and that meant moving faster than he should.

It was like New York and its never-sleeps attitude, except in New York, people had a tendency to stop Tony Stark on the streets, so Tony usually flew or drove wherever he needed to go, avoiding the problem altogether. Here in the parks, it hadn’t occurred to them until it was a problem that they were near a tipping point. Now, Steve could tell it was hurting Tony to go on, so Steve said softly but sincerely:

“No rush.”

Nodding, Tony said, “There a—place we could sit?” The implication was louder: _I need a break_.

Steve didn’t really know how any of the electronic stuff worked when it came to Disney, but he knew how maps worked, so he skimmed it with his handy-dandy “eagle eyes,” alighting quickly on, _Nomad Lounge_ , a short walk away, right in the path of Avatar— _Pandora_ —Land. “How’s Nomad Lounge sound?” he said aloud. “Bar and—”

“Great,” Tony breezed, getting up. “Super.” He didn’t protest when Steve slid the backpack off his back, putting it over one of his own shoulders instead, just one, and slinging his arm around Tony’s back, insisting in a low, for him alone voice:

“Slow.”

They dawdled, the five-minute walk three times as long, the short bridge to the little joint passing in due time. Avatar Land was clearly a place to be, the flow of human traffic definitely _ingoing_ , even as the rest of the park seemed to be emptying out, somewhat. They had just crossed the bridge, were nearly to another bench that Steve almost stopped at, when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something unlikely. He paused, unintentionally, holding Tony up as well.

_Is that . . . ?_

Blinking once, half-expecting the mirage to vanish, he waited as Tony turned and followed his gaze, then said aloud, amused, “Oh, look.” Nudging him in the ribs, Tony added, “It’s not real.”

“No,” Steve said, mouth abruptly dry, feeling shocked and still and small, sad and very happy at once. “No, I know. I know that one.”

Tony looked at him strangely for a moment, and he watched the big, brightly-colored tiger rummage around the bushes briefly, retreating with a fake laugh after a moment. “No,” he said again, “I know.” His feet were planted. Heart thumping like he had heart troubles again, Steve could not make himself say, _Let’s keep going_. 

Steve stared at the big, brightly-colored tiger, feeling like—well, like Tony and the blue bear, he supposed. He just . . . he wanted to go say hello. To ask it one thing. And then his question was answered as an equally bright yellow bear emerged from a nearby wooden building, a blue-shirted cast member on his arm. 

_Real_ , Steve thought, even though he knew, just like he knew it was all a show, an act, a mirage, in some way, it wasn’t. _They’re real. Look at ‘em._ He took a half-step forward, then paused, realizing what he was doing. _No, don’t touch_. None of it was for him to touch. They were pretty things in glass cases at the department stores. You just looked, and enjoyed.

But then, breaking from decorum, Tony called out, “Hey, Tigger!” and waved nice and big to get his attention. So—so unworried about it, like knocking on the glass Steve did not dare touch. Steve resisted the urge to duck under the bridge as the brightly-colored tiger turned to look at them, waving back just as enthusiastically.

Wow.

He was about to tug Tony along, to insist that the moment had gone on far too long and they needed to leave the nice tiger and nice bear to their Hundred Acre Woods— _it’s not a real place, none of this is a real place; but of course it is, you’re standing in it, aren’t you?_ And then, quite unexpectedly, he watched Pooh Bear, still on the arm of his blue-shirted companion, waltz across the short path towards them.

And despite the traffic, people just sort of—flowed around them, recognizing a look-don’t-touch moment when they saw it, and Steve resisted again the urge to duck aside, cheeks heating as he realized what he had started, attracting their attention. And yet, heart pulsing in his chest, when Pooh Bear stopped in front of him and—saluted. And Steve laughed, unexpectedly delighted. It was brief, such a fast movement that it could have been an errant wave, but he knew what it was, and there was something charming about it. _I see you_.

Taking the offered paw, gentle and light, in both hands, he swallowed unexpected emotion, astonished at how— _real_ it felt, just like a big, big teddy bear. Tony nudged him forward, and Steve knew there were people, but they didn’t seem to matter as much as he stepped forward and gently hugged the big teddy. 

Steve told Pooh Bear, “That’s a good bear.” Then he pulled away, swallowing again, eyes hot. “Good bear,” he repeated, accepting a pat on the shoulder and smiling as Tony got a gentle hug, too. When Pooh Bear stepped back, he looked at Tony and folded a paw—not over his heart but the center of his chest.

Tony smiled ruefully and nodded once. “Smart bear.”

Trampling over, so unlike his slow-moving companion, Tigger nearly _bounced_ as he came up to greet them. Grasping Tony’s hand and pumping it energetically, Tigger almost made Tony smile. Holding onto his dignity by a thread, Tony stuffed down a laugh even though it kept coming back, smile getting bigger and bigger before he leaned up to hug Tigger tightly instead.

Releasing him, Tigger turned to Steve. Steve could only say, “Hi, Tigger.” He could not believe it, looking at the tiger, the very tiger of his childhood, the one who he’d cuddled to his chest when the nights were gray. He had never had a Tigger of his own, no, but he had held the book and listened to his Ma talk about the Hundred Acre Woods. Oh, his eyes burned, and he had to clear his throat before he could say again, “Hi, Tigger.”

Tony encouraged, “You can hug him, now.”

Again, Tigger did the quick, almost not-there salute, careful not to draw attention to them—how they could _not_ be hauling attention was beyond Steve, although the crowd worked in their favor, and the later hour, the sun lower in the sky, the big faux-mountain and big faux-tree providing ample shade in their little nook. Struggling to say something meaningful to the big tiger, Steve managed, “I enjoyed your books very much.”

Tigger took his hand, held it briefly in two paws, and then gathered him in for a hug, pulling him in, just _reeling_ him in close, real tight, big arms everywhere, all around, a hug like a friend, all right, and he felt a paw pat his side that couldn’t have been Tigger’s, and after a brief bop of his big soft nose against the side of his head, Tigger backed away, still holding his hand in both paws for a long moment after. He shook it, twice, firmly, one paw settling on his shoulder, leaning up on big tiptoe to bop the top of his head with his chin, and Steve—he couldn’t help it, he smiled, pulled him in for a one-armed hug, felt the big tiger wiggle and bounce a little, both arms looping around him again, just for a brief moment. 

It was exactly what he’d hoped Tigger would be, when he’d first heard about that wonderful tiger, and he almost couldn’t let go, nearly prying his fingers away to do so. With one last gentle bop to his nose against the side of his head, Tigger stepped back, and Pooh Bear waved, and the blue-shirted cast member who’d been standing by Tigger’s side finally stepped forward and handed Tony a stack of tickets, informing, “These are universal FastPasses. Five attractions, any park, for you and up to four guests. If you’re planning on staying in Animal Kingdom, I’d highly recommend _Flight of Passage_.”

“Way ahead of you,” Tony said, sounding as happy as Steve felt, accepting a bop on the cheek from Tigger before the big cat flounced away, arm-in-arm with Pooh Bear and their blue-shirted companion.

“Have a magical day, Avengers,” the cast member told them before offering his own two-fingered salute and moving after his furred companions, linking arms with Tigger. 

Steve thought, _What a magical way to live_. To be friends with Tigger.

Steve looked over as Tony sifted through the tickets, looking somewhat awestruck as he glanced up at Steve, grinning like a loon. Then he held up his phone, indicating a self-portrait he’d taken with Tigger pressing a big kiss to his cheek. Shaking his head, he said, “All my years here—and I admit they’re not many—never had that happen.”

“Disney magic,” Steve managed.

Exhaling, looking lighter than air, Tony said seriously, “Birthday magic.”

* * *

The Nomad Lounge was the place to be in Animal Kingdom as the sun neared its horizon.

While kiddos snuffled into their parents shoulders at the approach of true dusk, the Lounge was just kicking off its happy hour. Tony, who hadn’t stopped bubbling about, “I can’t believe that just happened. Oh my God. We met Winnie the Pooh.”

“ _And_ Tigger,” Steve added, importantly, because he could still feel the big tiger’s arms around him, and oh, how he loved the big tiger. And the big bear, yes, but the big tiger. It was everything he’d hoped it would be. It was more. “Don’t forget—”

“How could I?” Tony breezed, stepping up to the door. “Wow.”

They found outdoor seating facing a long, dreamy stream, with nice outdoor lighting and one of the comfiest couches Steve had ever sat on. Sinking into the cushions, he exhaled in undisguised bliss. Sure, he wasn’t that tired, could go for days without stopping, but it was magnificent to take a load off, anyway. 

Steve felt shaken up and happy as a loon. Tony leaned into his airspace and flicked through his phone, showing off photos he’d snagged—including a few that had to have been taken by a third party, Tigger’s buddy, most likely—and observed, “That just _happened_.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. He eased the backpack onto the floor, fished out the birthday hat, and replaced it on Tony’s head, deciding, to heck with it, they had met _Pooh Bear_ and _Tigger_ , they could enjoy a little silliness. Tony didn’t knock it off or chuck it into the river, so he called it a win. “We—yeah.” Because they had. They’d done it. “Tony, we—”

“Yes,” Tony said, mirroring him as he pulled up the self-portrait again, musing, “He’s very photogenic, isn’t he?”

“You’re very photogenic,” Steve said honestly.

“Hey, happy birthday,” their waiter said immediately, “and welcome to the Nomad Lounge. My name’s Dan, I’ll be taking care of you this evening. I brought a couple menus, let me know if I can get you started off with some drinks, glass of water—”

“Yes,” Tony said immediately.

Dan replied, “I’ll get right on that.”

“Dan, what’s the best drink here?” Tony interrupted.

Dan said, “Our Annapurna Zing is popular. We sell a lot of Leaping Lizards, too, and—”

“Start with those,” Tony agreed.

“Sounds great.”

Scooting closer, Tony folded down his menu, took Steve’s, and flicked through it. “Okay, Zing looks good, Lizard—where’s the Lizard?” He turned the menu several directions. Steve flipped it upside down for him, but they still couldn’t make it out.

When Dan returned, Tony asked, “Dan, help me here—where’s the Lizard?”

Turning the cup precisely around on the little table in front of them, Dan indicated the fruit on a stick and said, “It’s a little oblique—”

“No, I see it,” Tony said.

Steve didn’t, but he trusted Tony’s intuition. “Need some more time with the menu?”

“Read my mind, Dan.” 

“I’ll be back.”

Reaching for the Leaping Lizard, Steve took a short sip as a test run, pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t motor oil or actual flowers. “Hm,” he said, letting Tony take the drink from him and gulp down a substantial mouthful. “Careful,” he warned, adjusting his hat as it slid on his head.

Rolling his eyes, Tony reached up, but instead of chucking the hat aside, he just pulled the string underneath his chin, securing it in place. “Not terrible,” Tony declared, handing him the Lizard and reaching for the Annapurna instead. “Thoughts?”

“Not bad,” Steve said. “Not bad at all.”

Tony took another bold gulp of the Annapurna, grimacing as he said, “Oh, wow, those two don’t mix,” before lowering it, taking a long drain from his glass of water to wash it down. 

“Y’okay?” Steve asked, half-amused, half-concerned.

Nodding grimly, Tony sipped at his water, then reached for the Annapurna, took a smaller sip, and added, “S’actually got a little kick to it. I think I like this one better. Keep your dirty Lizard out of my Annapurna,” he added, sinking into the couch. “God, it’s like biting into a lemon after brushing your teeth.”

Grimacing sympathetically at the analogy, Steve mused, “Dan’s a tough man.”

“You wanna try?”

Shrugging, Steve accepted the Annapurna in hand, took a small sip, and immediately understood Tony’s evaluation. It had a heftier taste to it, much more his speed, and instantly poisoned the aftertaste of the Lizard. “Wow,” he agreed, passing it back. Taking a cleansing gulp of his own water, he breathed in, finished off the Lizard, and added, “Think I’m going full Zing, myself.”

“No takebacks,” Tony said dryly, but he was smiling, pointing out, “you know these are $14 a head, right?”

“Awh, God, Tony,” Steve said, instantly embarrassed for wasting the poison water. “Why didn’t you—”

“Steve.” Rolling his straw around his drink, he said simply, “It’s fine. We’re on vacation. You can drink twelve of them, for all I care. Buy out the bar,” he added with a shrug. “Just don’t burn down the whole house and we’re golden.” Smirking around his next sip, he pulled out his phone when it buzzed, then indicated, “Guess who.” Answering, he added, “ _Marco_.”

“ _Cute_ ,” a tiny voice replied, just audible, like speaking under a thick floor of concrete.

“No, you’re supposed to say, ‘Polo,’” Tony said, slurping audibly at his drink.

“ _You at a bar?_ ”

“ _Nomad_ ,” Tony replied. “Be there or be square.” He hung up, then flicked his phone to a different setting and added to Steve, “There, now we shan’t be disturbed on this fine evening.” Smiling, he pointed out around another sip, “This is _not_ enough to get me wasted.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be,” Steve said truthfully. “Think that’d be the opposite of what they want in a Disney park.”

Sighing in agreement, Tony admitted, “Would be a tragedy to forget this fine day.” Smiling, genuine and warm, he looked up as Dan returned, adding, “Dan, we’d like two more of these.”

“Great,” Dan said. “I should mention that they come with lotuses—they’re extra, but they’re very thematic. They glow in the dark.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh.”

“Like, how obnoxiously are we talking?”

Dan blinked, somewhat caught off-guard. “Well,” he started. Then: “I can bring one out?”

“Terrific,” Tony said.

In short order, Dan returned with another Annapurna, this one adorned with—

“It’s ghastly,” Tony said at once, and Dan replied:

“I wasn’t sure if—”

“I would like one,” Tony interjected, “if you please. It is my birthday,” he added. Then: “Actually, go ahead and make that three—two more Zingers, three more flowers.” 

Smiling, Dan said, “Absolutely. I’m truly sorry, I should’ve offered it out the gate, but I figured you’d prefer to taste the beverage first. It can always be added on.”

“Mm,” Tony agreed. Steve wondered if some would find the flower garish, a thing to ruin the drink, but Steve himself could not stop staring at it, mesmerized. It was perfectly balanced on top of the drink, like a glowing blue lily-pad. “Oh, and we would like eight impossible sliders and four sides of yucca fries, if you would be so kind,” Tony added on. 

“Aye, aye,” Dan agreed, retreating.

“Tony,” Steve said at last, realizing he hadn’t blinked in a good while as his eyes began to burn, “ _look_.”

“Yes, dear,” Tony agreed, amused, handing him the unadorned glass and taking his glowing blue one for himself. “Now _this_ —this is why you come to Disney. Can’t get this at your everyday bar.” Setting the glass on the little coffee table in front of them like a lantern, they both stared at it for a goodly time. They didn’t touch it even as condensation dripped down the sides despite the overhead fans, didn’t move at all until Dan returned with a tray, loaded with three more glowing lotuses, two Annapurnas and one water.

“And here we are, sirs.”

“ _Very_ nice,” Tony said. “Thank you, Dan.” After Dan left, Tony looked at Steve seriously and asked, “How many of these do you want?”

Aware that they cost the same amount as a month’s rent in his day, Steve said, “I’m fine with one, Tony, really.” 

“So, three?” Tony said, smiling, amused.

Sipping water, even though it diluted the taste of the Annapurna considerably, Steve said, “No, Tony, I’m fine.”

“ _Thank you, Tony; that’s very kind of you, Tony_ ,” Tony parroted.

Sighing, Steve said, “Is that who Barton gets it from?”

Wrinkling his nose, Tony said, “Had to mention him, didn’t you?” He sipped his own Annapurna, setting it down and adding wistfully, “I want those blue flowers, Steven.”

“Cheaper ways to get them,” Steve pointed out. _Probably_.

Grinning toothily, Tony said, “God, but less fun.”

And he had a point—which was how, by the time Clint and Natasha found them, they’d acquired four of the damn things between the two of them, Steve doing the lion’s share of the work. “All right,” he huffed, because he didn’t get drunk but he could still only drink so much _Zing_ in one go, “I’m good. I’m good.”

“Look at them,” Tony said, lining up the glowing blue flowers on the table, and the one drink still half-full with its lily-pad inside it. “How many of these will Dan let us take home? Ten per customer limit?”

Hiccuping once, close-mouthed and brief, Steve said, “Probably.”

Thankfully, Clint took one sip of the Zing and decided he didn’t like it, opting instead for a Leaping Lizard. Natasha did her part, finishing Clint’s glass so Steve didn’t have to. Which brought them to a grand total of: 

“Hey,” Tony mused. “Look.” Setting the lotuses out in a ring, he announced, “Big Six.” Then he grinned, an absolutely terrific grin, and added, “Cheers,” before holding up his own half-finished glass.

Toasting, they clinked waters and echoed, “Cheers.”

The impossible sliders proved heavenly; the yucca fries were even better, just heavy enough to weigh down the Zingers (and Lizards). They had nearly settled into a post-snack, pre-sunset stupor when Clint announced, “All right, we got a _Flight of Passage_ FastPass to make, check?”

And Tony drawled suddenly, “We met Tigger and Pooh.”

“You what?”

Pulling out his phone, Tony showed off the self-portrait, beaming, as he added, “They gave us five free FastPasses.” Pocketing his phone with a glance at Steve, who felt glad that Tony had not opted to share any of the other photos—there was something profoundly personal about them, even though complete strangers had been there to bear witness— “So, somebody better get Banner on the horn and tell him to meet us at EPCOT by eight.”

“And all I got was this,” Clint said, digging into his pocket and producing a pin that had a cartoon Yeti on it, complete with the text line, _I Conquered Everest_. “Oh, and this,” he added, reaching around the corner, producing a dark blue bag, and chucking it at Tony. “Happy birthday.”

Sighing in mock aggrievement, Tony said, “Barton, we’ve talked about this.”

“Yes,” Clint agreed. “Open it. This one’s very tasteful,” he added proudly.

Grimacing in anticipation, Tony slowly sat up, and opened the edges of the bag. “What,” he began, “in God’s green Earth—”

“Can’t bring the Stark to the Yeti, bring the Yeti to the Stark,” Clint announced cheekily. “I call him Zeus. You know. Mount Olympus and all.”

“You can’t _name_ him,” Tony said, rolling his eyes and holding the little— _giant_ —round [marshmallow](https://wdwnt.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/0561215F-2834-4E77-80FE-92428ACBFAC1.jpeg) in both hands, looking at Clint incredulously. “I’m finding a toddler and giving this to them. Immediately.”

“Sure,” he said. “If you want. But it’s yours.” Beaming, he added, “Yeti you glad you came?”

Shutting his eyes, Tony said, “Oh my God.”

“You ain’t seen Yeti yet,” Clint promised, beaming. “Be nice to Zeus, he survived a long journey. Went to the top of the mountain, you know.”

Squinting narrowly at Clint, Tony asked incredulously, “You rode it _twice_?”

“Zeus helped me get another FastPass,” Clint said cheekily. “He’s good luck. Rub his head, you’ll see.”

“Of course he is,” Tony said, rubbing his eyes instead. “I’m capping you. You’re capped.”

“Okay,” Clint said, sounding like he had not, in fact, been capped. “Just be nice to Zeus. He’s done nothing wrong.”

“Stop calling him that. He’s getting adopted out the minute we leave.”

“We all live with our choices.”

“Oh my God,” Tony grumbled, wearily pushing the marshmallow into Steve’s amused hold and telling Dan, “yes, we are ready for the bill.”

As soon as Dan was gone, he took Zeus back, growling at Clint, “ _Capped_.”

“Yeti you glad I didn’t say banana?” Clint cackled, a joke to himself, making Tony thwack him on the head with the marshmallow thing. “All right, all right. Hey, tell this Dan guy to scoot, we got an eight-minute walk and a ten-minute FastPass to meet.”

“Dan is a saint,” Tony deadpanned. “You are the spawn of—”

“And here’s your check, sir,” Dan said, right on cue.

Again handing the Yeti off calmly to Steve, Tony took the bill, slid a card into it, passed it off to the waiting Dan, and reclaimed Zeus. “What about me says _I would like a stuffed marshmallow?_ ”

“You are what you eat?” Clint tried.

“Surprised you didn’t work a Yeti in there,” Tony grumbled, reaching forward to scoop their flower bounty into the little blue backpack. “Barton, you’re losing your touch.”

“Yetis come and Yetis go, but people never change,” Clint said, in some approximation of wisdom.

Sighing deeply, Tony took the reclaimed check, the, “Have a magical evening—and happy birthday,” from Dan, and then signed with a flourish, adding, “I hate you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Clint said, deeply amused.

Finishing off the last yucca fry, Steve wondered how on God’s green Earth one man could know another so well he could think a Yeti toy would be welcomed and actually be right.

Poking out of the top of the backpack, Zeus at least blended in with the light blue scheme they had going on, although Tony had chosen to replace his ears at the bottom of the bag, insisting, “Can’t go dragon-riding with those on.”

And Steve thought, _Dragon-riding?_

* * *

There were a few things Steve felt sure of in the Brave New World he had come to know. First: magic was not real, any more today than it was yesterday—there were answers to every question one could ask, even if those answers had not yet been discerned. Second, there was still beauty to be found in the mundane and ordinary, same as always—nothing could change the simple joys of warm beds and buttered bread for him. And third, there was something wonderful in the not-knowing of the universe, in gaping incomprehension.

As they zip lined through the FastPass queue—a truly breathtaking voyage compared to the 45-minute standby line, at the late hour of _one hour before park closing_ —he stared, wonder-struck, at floating mountains, and falling water, and the beginning glow of blue, like the little lotuses in Tony’s little bag. 

He thought blue was a magical color, because it was the choice of oceans and skies and even deep space, the color of the only light in his world, the arc reactor under Tony’s shirt, as Tony turned around to make sure he was still there, even though he had a hand in Steve’s, pulling him along like he would get lost without him. And maybe he would not, but he squeezed Tony’s hand anyway, because he would feel lost in the great wide yonder without him.

Tony led the way through the caves, too briskly to contemplate much beyond, _This is magical_. It truly was, in its own little way, in its own indecipherable way. He felt as though it was a new color on the rainbow, one he had yet to fill in as they finally reached the head of the shorter queue, and waited their turn to step closer to wonder. And he wondered what form this wonder would take, Tony’s cryptic replies to his queries only sparking his interest. Tony would not share what kind of ride it truly was, only that it was a dragon-ride, and Steve supposed that was good enough for now.

As they went through the motions and arrived at the loading dock, Steve was surprised at how simple the setup was, how unpresumptuous. No fake boats and no fake mountains here—just a row of strange bikes, one for each of them and then some. Along the back wall was a row of cabinets, where Tony could store his blue bag. He saddled up, slotting his legs into the strange bike, and Steve mirrored him, feeling the weight of it. It was a pretty narrow fit, close, hugging, meant to hold him steady, not the free ride he was used to on a motorcycle, and he wondered if it would be comfortable for any sort of actual road.

 _We’re not going bike-riding_ , he reminded himself, as the lights dimmed and then went dark, and there was only the screen and a slight abyss before him. _We’re going dragon-riding_.

For a long beat, there was silent, anticipatory, building, and he held his breath, and waited. For that long moment, it seemed to stretch out forever, all the possibilities of what could happen next, all the ideas in his head, of roaring across a path, of plunging down dirt roads, familiar, weighty, real experiences.

But then the bike _transformed_ , came _alive_ , its side _expanding_ , warm, living, breathing against his calves. The view in front of his suddenly opened up, and he could see in front of him a tremendous, astonishing landscape. It was so real it was touchable.

His dragon breathed beneath him, and suddenly he was not in a strange, futuristic room on a strange, futuristic bike at all.

No—he was flying, soaring, plunging, all of it characterized by intense, giddy, exhilarating pandemonium. They recovered flat flight before adrenaline even considered terror, leaving only cutting joy behind. And a need, a deep, desperate, yearning _need_ for more. 

It was flight the way flight had been conceived: open, free, but also close and warm. Humans were social animals, bonded animals, and the dragon whose ribs swelled under his calves was his companion, its breath and blood as necessary to the flight as the mechanics of the flight itself.

The dragon took them places, plunging and roaring and swinging unexpectedly, with the wicked, wonderful mayhem of a creature that was far more powerful than he was, no matter how many tanks he could haul or bones he could break, a legendary creature that knew no chains. Yet there was in it a feeling of closeness, of shared destinations, as he gripped its neck and followed its sightline. There was a shared need to be aloft, to be together, as if it needed his calves hugging its sides as badly as he needed its ribs breathing underneath them, a living creature, a real animal.

For all the minutes they were aloft, _together_ , exploring that magical little portal together, it was like he was not Captain America or Steve Rogers at all, but a man who had grown up in a different world, where dragons were real, and he had one. 

And as it took him to its final resting nook, he knew that they were nearing the end, could feeling the heaviness of its wing beats, could _feel_ the timber of its gait and knew exactly when the journey would be complete, yet it did not feel as though the spell had been shattered at all, but as if he had simply stepped back through the curtain, and had to let go of what he still held onto through it.

Slowly, the beast sighed a last breath before becoming still and mechanical again, and the scene in front of him went dark. Then the lights came back on, filling the space in spacey blue. Steve was shocked at how abruptly bereft he felt, stepping off the beast that had taken him over hills and valleys, through caves and even cresting open water, so smoothly and with such powerful self-assurance that fear had had no place between them. He longed, suddenly and intensely and nearly more than he had anything, to simply return to his beast and stay with it for a little longer, to sit at its side and listen to it breathe before taking off into the long distance again.

Steve had never considered the _need_ to fly so profound as in that moment, reaching for the backpack in its open cabinet to set it back on Tony’s shoulders. He wondered, silently and sincerely, if there ever was a dragon, and knew the answer was _no_ , and still thought, in some honest way, _yes. Just for a little while_.

Smiling to himself, amused and heartbroken and truly and utterly amazed, he put an arm around Tony’s shoulders above the pack, guiding him out of the area, mustering up a, “Spectacular,” from somewhere. It felt so inadequate compared to the experience that he felt bad for giving it voice, but he repeated, “spectacular,” like something needed to be said.

“Miss her already,” Tony admitted in a low voice, and Steve understood. Tony—who had a favorite screwdriver, who named his Roombas—was the one who grew attached to _things_. Steve could not afford to—literally, at one time in his life; and metaphorically, after. And still, Steve found himself deeply, dreadfully, nearly for the first time heart-wrenchingly bound to something he had to leave.

 _Not something._ Someone.

“Me, too,” Steve said, because he understood, that breathing, wonderful animal that had never existed except for those brief moments in their shared almost-reality. “Me, too.”

He’d never thought magic could hurt, could be so good it would hurt to leave it, but it was a tender sweetness. When he said, “Spectacular,” a third time, he meant it. He was grateful for it, too, to have known a dragon. It was a gift to know something good, even if only to lose it.

Hugging Tony closer, kissing his temple warmly, Steve took in the park around them, glowing bluer and bluer by the minute, purples and greens joining in as the sun continued its descent towards the dark horizon, and said softly, “S’okay.”

“S’ not,” Tony muttered. He turned towards Steve at the end of the long exit queue, folding into Steve's arms and shivering in the chilling air. Clint and Natasha moved along but paused a good distance away, giving them space. “I just—goddammit.” He said it more against Steve’s shirt than to open air, so Steve forgave it—he couldn’t care less what sort of talk they used at home, but they’d all agreed to be on alert at Disney, for the sake of the little ones. They were no little ones in their immediate vicinity, anyway. “I miss my banshee, Steve.”

Squeezing him gently, Steve said, “I’m sorry.” And he meant that, too. Because it was never something he wanted to do, to take _away_ a good thing, no matter how sweet it was to give it. And he thought that maybe some of it—the waspishness, the threats—were insurance against the feeling of future loss. That it was impossible to lose what one never had in the first place.

Sighing deeply, Tony pulled back, said gruffly, “’m okay.” Tugging on Steve’s hand, he repeated, “I’m okay.” When Steve held his ground for a moment longer, he added seriously, “I’ll be fine in twenty minutes, give or take.” And that was likely true, given Tony’s tremendous will, his incredible resilience, his ability to absorb any heartbreak, but God, it hurt to take anything away from him.

To give him something so beautiful, and then to take it _away_.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve said again, needing to say it.

Making a small, hurt little noise, Tony said, “Don’t make me sad.” Looking at him, the arc reactor just visible under his dark shirt, he added, “I just wanna be happy.”

Taking the backpack gently from his shoulders, Steve slung it over one of his own again and wrapped an arm around Tony’s back, letting him do the same, slowing their pace to an amble. 

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” Steve said, assurance and promise in one. “So, you do what you need to, to be happy,” he finished, squeezing him gently. “The rest is gravy.”

* * *

It took them forty minutes to exit the park, twice as long as it should have. Steve was nearly certain that despite insistent claims that they would still visit EPCOT, the third—and final—park on their itinerary, Tony would see reason and concede defeat. It was nearly seven-thirty at night, and the sun was getting real low, the temperature falling with it. The bus was downright _freezing_ , and it wasn’t Steve who was shivering openly, this time around. He curled both arms around Tony, huddling shamelessly in an attempt to warm him up, wishing he’d brought a coat, not thinking in the daytime, sauna-like humidity.

Steve wanted to stop at the hotel and grab one, but Tony’s logic was gruff and immovable: a hotel stop meant four more Monorail stops after, just to get back where they’d started. From their next stop, the Ticket and Transportation Center, it was just one Monorail hop to their final destination. With his energy waning, Tony’s forthright logic made sense, but with the mercury falling fast with sundown, their unpreparedness did not.

Even in the relative warmth of the Florida heat compared to the freezing bus, it was not much better after they abandoned the bus. Steve hoped Tony might see reason once they unloaded, but Tony had a plan, so they boarded the EPCOT Monorail instead and huddled, on one side, Natasha offering her warmth in a rare moment of unspoken giving.

Just inside the gates, they found Bruce, chafing his hands together and wearing a sweater, looking like he’d been standing in one place for thirty minutes as he bounced from foot-to-foot, stuffing his phone in his pocket when he saw them. “Oh, thank God,” he greeted, looking between the lot of them and rushing forward to hug Steve like he was salvation. He then embraced Tony for a good while, asking in the same hopeful tone, “Do you have—?”

Tony dug in a pocket tiredly and produced another set of earplugs. “Don’t lose them this time,” he warned. “Foam’s a—pain to manufacture.”

Bruce stuck them in his ears, held up an OK sign, and added loudly, “So! What first? Turkey legs—?”

Shivering, Tony shrugged, evidently done with calling the shots for the moment. “Fine,” he barked, leaning into Steve’s side. Then, looking at Clint, Tony ordered, “I want coffee. Get me coffee and I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”

“Black or—?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

“Got it. We staying for _IllumiNations?_ ” Clint asked.

“Hard maybe,” Tony said, in a weird tone Steve couldn’t quite decipher. Not quite fearful or angry, just . . . stern.

“On it,” Clint said, rallying Bruce with an arm around his shoulders, making the poor man jump violently before recovering. “We’ll meet you at the Land!”

“C’mon,” Natasha said, hooking her arm through Steve’s unexpectedly. “I haven’t spent any time with you two.”

Surprised that she wanted to, Steve shrugged and followed her lead as she guided them towards a shopping area nested underneath the World’s Largest Golf Ball ( _don’t call it that; it’s a fancy sphere_ ), before instructing, “Stark, sit.”

Getting ready to have a seat on the flat rock-like bench beside him, Steve blinked when she said, “Not you,” and continued to pull him along. “This’ll be quick.”

“All right,” he said, looking around the brightly lit store and its many Mickey Mouse-related offerings in small wonder. It was like stepping into a cartoon; a little overwhelming, honestly, in a way that the rides, streamlined and story-driven, weren’t. He felt out of place, but he was never one to complain about supporting a teammate. Besides, another brief pause wouldn’t kill Tony after the walk from the long, winding walk from the Monorail to the park and shop, so he followed placidly as Natasha wound her way deeper into the store.

“Sure you need me here?” he asked, a touch unsurely, because he wasn’t sure his expertise could lend any usefulness.

“Yes,” she said simply, slowing in front of a row of sweaters, fairly gaudy, before moving along to a tamer aisle, still loud and Mickey Mouse-related but less likely to be seen from the top of the _fancy sphere_. “All right, try this,” she instructed, reaching up for a gray sweater with an embossed Mickey Mouse head on it. 

Like all clothes in the Brave New World, it was well-made and warm, though it seemed to have a noticeably leaner texture than Tony’s preferred brands. Tony was a guy who liked his coffee the way _he_ liked his coffee, and the fact that he was willing to settle for anything was a testament to his fatigue, and Steve felt again apologetic that he hadn’t pushed for a hotel stop as he unzipped the hoodie and informed, “It fits.”

She said, “Great,” and then, “Now scram.”

Amused, he picked his way through the confectionery of toys and trinkets and t-shirts towards the entrance, sitting on the short rocky bench-like feature next to Tony, right against his side to lend his warmth. “How you doing?” he asked.

Turning his phone towards Steve, he answered by scrolling back to the top and flicking through photos from the day—photos from the Magic Kingdom, including shots of the castle and the blue bear, including their own photos with him—“Asked the cast member while you were shaking hands,” Tony informed, amused, and showed him, in all his 6’2 wonder, shaking hands with the blue alien that could not have been an inch over 5’0 at the crown of its head, towering blue ears excluded. 

The next set were all group shots, Tony’s smile radiant as he hung onto Steve and held onto Stitch warmly in his other arm, like he had never been prouder to take a photo with anyone outside family. Even Steve looked happy, not the showman’s smile he sometimes used to get through necessary unpleasantries but a real, honest little grin, one hand resting on a blue furred back as he reflected privately, _Ma, I met an alien today, a real, live alien_.

He saw a photograph of him at the real Confectionery, looking down at a sweet-filled counter like a kid in Candy Land, which, he supposed, wasn’t terribly far off from the truth. He saw their swath of empty glasses at the Harbour House, Tony’s hand holding his on the table, a perennial statement, _We were here_.

He saw an unexpected self-portrait of Tony and him on _Space Mountain_ as their lively little metal mule crept up the launch hill, his own gaze fixed on the astronauts while Tony, holding up what he called a gang sign and the rest of the world called a peace sign, grinned at the camera in rare open delight. There was a self-portrait on _Pirates_ , too, this one darker but showing Steve looking off at the unfortunate pirate on the sandy knoll while Tony arched both eyebrows at the camera, cheek resting on Steve’s shoulder.

There were miscellaneous pictures, too—a blue bag full of Mickey Mouse-shaped Rice Krispies treats, even one of Jimmy the balloon tied to the remote and the rest of their exasperating and amusing confection canopying their hotel ceiling, and a back-shot of the two of them on a boat ride, the one set to the _Small World_ song that made him smile, even now, hours later, that he realized had to have been taken by Clint, likely on his own phone, which explained the next set of images as well:

At the apex of the mountain, there was a picture of Clint, grinning hugely, in the seat of a tall-backed train, a white-and-blue Yeti snugged tightly in one hand, with Natasha, expression utterly stoic, sitting in the seat next to him. She looked as though she had specifically said, _No pictures_ , mere seconds before he had whipped out his phone and taken the shot at the top of the mountain, during what must have been a fairly substantial pause, given the clarity of the image.

They had also sent, Steve saw, what must have been the _Everest_ queue line, backpacks and images of mean-looking Yetis, as well as an entire nest of Zeuses in the gift shop, which made Steve huff and understand in a small way why they had picked one up—they looked like little marshmallow things all in a bunch, bright-eyed and sweet.

There were more pictures from Clint, too—a photograph of himself and Tony on the Nomad Lounge porch in close quarters, backs to the camera as they looked out over the river, Tony’s Mickey Mouse ears clearly distinguishing him from Steve even without Steve’s shoulders picking up the slack. There was another shot of them walking up towards the Avatar ride, Tony’s arm curled around his, the little blue backpack with Zeus sticking out sweetly incongruous with their otherwise immaculate appearance.

Then came a final series of shots in breathtaking Avatar Land, striking in the incoming night juxtaposition. He hadn’t realized Tony had snagged a photograph of it, but then he realized the true culprit when he caught another mid-park self-portrait from Clint and Natasha, this time with Clint holding the phone at a high overhead angle as he beamed up at the camera and held Natasha in one arm, showing a wide-lens shot of Pandora in the rest of the frame, filled with night-watchers and aglow in purple and blue and green. 

Then it was back to what he knew—more photographs from the Animal Kingdom that Steve recognized as Tony’s, including the most recent, a photograph of the little blue lotuses on the table and then the same six lotuses with four fists around them, forming a four-pointed star-like shape, almost closed. Laughter had filled the air as they had _hear-heared_ and entertained, just for a moment, what they were, _Avengers_ , in a world so removed.

Arm slung around Tony’s back, Steve gathered him close, kissed his cheek, and said sincerely, “I love you.”

Humming, Tony couldn’t repress his own smile, even as he blinked at an incoming text message from HAWK and clicked on the attached image, showing Steve with a snort of laughter Bruce holding the biggest turkey leg Steve had ever seen, held in front of him like a trophy, irrepressible grin delighted.

“Well,” Steve mused, looking over as Natasha reappeared, chucking the blue bag at him from a good distance, catching it easily, “they found it.”

“Mm-hm.” Leaning in curiously, Tony asked, “Goodies?”

Retrieving the hoodie obediently, he pried off the tags, noticing that there was no price listed on any of them, _Perhaps for the best_ , and zipped it up. “Thanks, Nat,” he said, surprised and touched and belatedly realizing that, “You didn’t have to do this.” _It’s not_ my _birthday_.

“Happy birthday, Stark,” Natasha said incongruously, as Tony leaned in curiously against Steve, testing the softness of the sweater from the outside and evidently finding it satisfactory as he rubbed his cheek against Steve’s shoulder, prickly half-beard catching on the fabric.

“Finally,” Tony muttered, sounding amused and happy, “a woman who knows how to gift a man.”

Sighing, Natasha said, “Don’t make me regret it.”

“I’m gonna make you regret it so hard,” Tony said cheerfully, curling a hand under the edge of the sweater to soak in some of Steve’s newly-trapped warmth, rapidly creating its own self-sustaining warmth. “You’re my favorite person on—”

“And now I’m leaving,” Natasha said, matching action to word. Dryly, she added, “Text me.”

“Still in for _Soarin_ ’?” Tony called after her, snugging closer to Steve like he’d climb onto his lap, to hell with potential audience. Then: “Hey, I have universal FastPasses, I can get you on anything.”

“Text me,” Natasha repeated, and moved out of easy communication range.

Still cuddled honeymooning couple close, Tony said against his shoulder, “She’s gonna ride _Test Track_ seven times in a row, isn’t she?”

“Hm?” Steve asked, rubbing his flank, distributing warmth the old-fashioned way, manually. “What’s—”

“See, I _have_ fast cars, I don’t see the appeal,” Tony said, unfolding slowly and standing, turning and feeling around his back, snagging the blue backpack from the bench and saddling it over his own shoulders. “I can’t believe you almost lost our son.”

“I would never,” Steve said solemnly, offering an arm. “Where to?”

“Well,” Tony said, consulting his phone, “hold on.” Tapping away, he held it up and said, “Hey, as—sparagus, where are you?”

“ _Five minute wait-time_ ,” Clint replied cheerfully, a noisy pavilion filling the backdrop. “ _First stop on the left. Race you to the top of the pyramid_.” Then he hung up.

Scoffing, Tony pocketed his phone and said, “They went to _Mexico_.” Tugging on Steve’s arm, he explained, “They went on a—Gosh darned boat ride without us. After _my_ hospitality.” Shaking his head, he added, “C’mon, we got ground to cover. _And_ still no coffee.”

Evidently, only Clint had gone to Mexico—or, at least, the interior, as Bruce cheerfully waved them down from the steps, steaming cup of coffee in hand. “Oh, great, you’re here!” he announced, a little too loudly. “Hey, you should see the puppets they’ve go—”

“You are so _G-dang loud_ ,” Tony said, leaning forward to better be heard through what had to be impressively thick earplugs. “My _Gosh_ , I’m never getting you a present again.”

“Not _my_ birthday,” Bruce added cheerfully, then, looking at Steve, he beamed and added, “Nice shirt, Cap!”

“Sweater,” Steve clarified.

“Hoodie,” Tony corrected, flicking up the hoodie, thoroughly mussing up his hair.

“Hoodie,” Steve agreed, pushing it back gently. Not like he was going to a Captain America photoshoot, anyway, he thought, grinning, surely adding to the boyish image in his G-dang Mickey Mouse hoodie. Sitting on the side of the steps with Bruce, he canted a leg out so Tony could settle between them, sliding an arm around his torso and adding, “You’re relyin’ on Disney magic, aren’t you?”

“Hence—hoodie,” Tony said, leaning up to yank it down, covering his eyes. “If you’re good, I might even let you try this. But not now, now I need it.”

Coffee didn’t do anything for him, either on a taste or a caffeine-kick level, so he assured, “I’m good, Tony, and looked over as Bruce nearly shouted, “Hey, where’s Natasha?”

Tapping his knee firmly, Tony waited until Bruce removed a single earplug, winced at the immediate increase in volume, and ruefully removed both earplugs. “It’s actually worse with just one ear,” he explained, holding them in hand and looking down at them. “So—where’s Nat?” he asked, munching on his turkey leg. 

Steve’s stomach growled. Not loudly, but it still growled. Tony offered the cup up to him again graciously, but he shook his head, assuring, “Nah, I’ll get popcorn in a bit.” Goddamned Disney. He swore it was the sheer amount of information he was actively tuning out driving the serum into overdrive. 

The volume didn’t seem loud, but he had the habit of tuning out even extremely abrasive noises. It came in handy for constructive work or artillery fire, if the volume was fairly constant, and the crowds scarcely ebbed—the background radiation was easy to tune out. Still—he noticed an increased appetite on those days, or a jitteriness in general, just—wired. Living in New York City could be a real treat sometimes, when he noticed _rats_ skittering in sewers.

Suddenly, a turkey leg appeared in his sightline. The smell alone was irresistible. Steve took it in hand and carved off a healthy bite. It was hot and juicy and tasted like heaven. It took no small amount of self-restraint to say, “Thanks, Banner,” and offer it back.

“Keep it,” Bruce said, getting up and replacing his earplugs. “I was gonna get another. Tony, you want one?”

Holding up the coffee, Tony said, “Not a mixer.”

Making the half-eaten leg last was a decent challenge, but he survived it—not crunching the bone to suck out the marrow was hard. “No,” Tony insisted, as Steve sucked at the remains, because they weren’t at home. Tony could put up with ice-cream biting in public—even normal people did it—but bone-crunching was his limit. “Uh-uh.”

Mournfully setting the bone on the stone beside him, Steve said, “Best part.”

“Give a dog a bone,” Tony muttered, more to himself than Steve, looking up as Bruce returned with two legs. “See, look—”

Uncracked bone forgotten, Steve devoured the second leg. He was not proud of how quickly he devoured the second leg, thinking briefly to another Christmas turkey he’d inhaled in seven-and-a-half minutes because he hadn’t eaten _all day_ , and he didn’t have the same excuse now, but this one was still good, so he took one particularly loud _bite_ before he thought better when he reached the center, and Tony yowled, “Hey!” and Steve froze, but Tony just sighed, said, “Go _ahead_ ,” because the damage was done, and the crowd was plenty loud. Steve sucked the marrow as quickly and quietly as he could. It was the best part, and as he had explained plenty of times, it was the most nutritious part, and—

“Please, for the love of God, don’t ever do that next to my ear again,” Tony said, but he was repressing a laugh, rubbing his face with a hand, Zeus pressing into Steve’s knee as he leaned back. “God, I’m dating a _werewolf_.”

Steve wasn’t the only bone-cruncher out there, he’d rightfully insisted, but it was considered niche in Western culture. Apparently teeth weren’t made for crunching. “I’m sorry,” he said, setting the broken bone next to the unbroken one.

“It’s fine,” Tony said, sounding like he was over it, dirty-socks-outside-the-laundry-bin over it. Tilting his head back to look at Steve, he added, “Still love you.”

Steve smiled helplessly, sheepish but grateful for the reminder. “I love you, too.”

Bruce, chowing down happily on his own turkey leg with his earplugs back in, just asked again loudly, “So—where’s Natasha?”

“ _Test—_ he can’t hear me,” Tony said with a huff of laughter, getting up and nodding at Steve’s turkey leg bones. “C’mon, let’s go find Clint.”

“Oh, hey, you guys are going inside?” Bruce asked loudly, looking up at them. “Hold on.” Inhaling the rest of his turkey in record time, he scrambled up and added, “I’m up.”

“Great,” Tony said, chucking the empty cup in a bin. “Let’s go. _Vámonos_.”

* * *

Boat rides, Steve thought, were a slice of something special.

See, they hadn’t been _conceived_ back in the day—nobody thought, _Somebody might like this_. Boats were just a way to get to and from places. It was simple enough, both in concept and operation, especially for a species that had managed to put birds in the sky, yet nobody had thought of it, not until—“1962,” Tony announced, consulting and replacing his phone, just before they boarded.

The little boat was noticeably smaller than either _Pirates_ or _Small World_ , and rather than sharing their vessel with other guests, they were able to commandeer one for their little trio, the cast member saluting them just before they departed the gate, confirming Steve’s sneaking suspicion that his hoodie disguise was not, in fact, foolproof with the hood down. 

The only condition for one boat for three customers—Clint had not been exaggerating the five-minute line; when they walked in, there was virtually no line to speak of, although the pavilion itself was fairly lively and well-inhabited—was good weight distribution. So, with Tony at the helm, Steve enjoying the entire second row, and Bruce calling up the rear, they left the last two abbreviated rows uninhabited. 

“Finally,” Tony preened as they dipped from the launchpad into the real current, bobbing along at a surprisingly good clip with their reduced load, “real leg room.” Pulling Zeus out of the bag, he set the little marshmallow Yeti on the seat beside him, adding, “Don’t forget to scream at the falls, Steve, it adds ambience.” Then he turned and smirked, pointing out, “There’s no lap bars, so I’ll let you take a stab at how steep the grade is.”

Why, the boat was so shallow a five-degree grade would send the whole canoe under, but Steve knew Tony was pulling his leg, assuring gravely, “I’ll fish Banner out.”

“Thank you,” Banner, who had never ridden it before and had nervously removed both earplugs, said, patting his shoulder emphatically. “You’re a good man, Cap.”

“You, too,” Steve said, spotting a volcano in the distance behind the big pyramid in the foreground of the midnight-blue landscape. “S’it real?”

“Erupts boiling hot lava every hour, on the hour,” Tony said serenely. “What time is it?”

Steve automatically checked his wrist for his watch and found the strange plastic band that let them into the parks instead. “I’d say about the hour,” he replied somberly, shaking his sleeve down.

“Make peace with your Maker,” Tony said, and they both watched lava ooze from the top, fake, had to be, but—wowie, it was impressive. Looked almost real enough to climb. And the pyramid _was_ real, just like the whole building around them—a pyramid inside a pyramid, he mused, glancing over at the little faux-city with its dining tables and diners, watching them with the idle interest of tourists at Disney World, not fans of the Avengers. 

It was far too dark, to pick out Tony Stark’s famous visage. Even in good light, Steve would scarcely have recognized himself in such a silly getup, never mind a less well-known figure like Dr. Bruce Banner. They were safe, he realized, relaxing into his seat. It was hard to believe a place on Earth existed where some kind of anonymity existed for them, but if ever there was one, they’d found it. A place to get lost in for a while.

They descended under an arch into a cartoon, their boat yawing around corners, and it wasn’t as lively as _Pirates_ or as mystifying as _Small World_ , but it was amusing in its own way, like watching a street performance. And it had a five-minute wait time, he thought, which was Disney’s way of sayin’, _Step right up, folks_.

Looking around, enjoying the scenery for what it was, he smiled at the strange ducks hollering for their pal reminding him of home life, in a way, as they flitted about the screens, chasing each other around, a real vaudeville show—and it was nice, homey in another way, real homey, the kind of standup show that he didn’t think folks enjoyed anymore. It made him laugh aloud without meaning to, surprised giggle fits that he couldn’t quite stop in their tracks, the show moving along before he’d fully recovered, so it came as a one-two punch. 

There was even a _Small World_ moment, with more of the dazzling little dollies and all their instruments, and he smiled, wishing he could shake the hand of the person who made them all come to life, the whole show of it, the only part incomplete the lack of roaring applause at the end, his hands yearning to clap for something. It was only right, after all, the way a show was supposed to be, and yet there was no audience but them, a home movie, a show for just the three of them, and then he saw sparklers high in the sky, _fireworks, **fireworks!**_

His eyes lit up, he was sure, his jaw falling open. He did not manage an exclamation of _Look, Tony!_ , because he had not seen a firework that did not make him flinch in years, but oh, the _light_ , it was pretty, it was everything a firework was supposed to be, a living memory, the way it feathered outward, none of the way it shattered in his chest, the thrill that made some people happy and some people bone-frightened, and he was a tough fella, he was, but to look up and see only them fan outward and feel nothing but elation, to enjoy the show, hot _dog_.

He spared a look for the little ducks on stage, singing and dancing, amazingly real, jumped right off the screen, it seemed, and then he looked up again, watched those fireworks until they disappeared from view. 

* * *

It was hard not to feel lighter than air after that. Fireworks. Fireworks! Real fireworks!

And he knew they weren’t real, but he was tickled pink, anyway, looking longingly around the pavilion and shaking his head when Tony asked if he wanted to go again, teasing that they could easily go three or four more times with a line like that. It would be amazing to do so, he was sure, but he cherished the laughter in his chest, like the first sip of champagne, and he knew that the warmth would last him. So he said, “Got a whole world to see, don’t we?”

And they did. It was a heck of a trek, too, although he was no longer surprised at the sheer _size_ of the parks, not after hauling ass around Magic Kingdom half the day and then Animal Kingdom nearly the rest. It was well into the night now, but they had a special running, something called _Extra Magic Hours_ , and Steve thought, _Birthday Magic Hours_ , a little giddy, maybe, from all the wonder in one day, how much wonder could one day _hold_? My God, there’d never be a day like it, he was sure.

They consulted a physical map that Bruce had somehow acquired, using the light of Tony’s cell phone, which had a digital map, besides, but there was something about pointing lines on a real map that was far more satisfactory, anyway, and they quickly determined that they could _walk_ the entire loop around the World Showcase in the dark, sampling drinks and food they had no stomach for and popping into shops they had no appetite to shop, or they could double back and hit up the main attractions. 

It seemed sacrilegious to skip half a park they’d bothered to come to, but there weren’t any real attractions, and like Hollywood Studios, they weren’t skipping it out of meanness— _This is us, that’s them_ , Steve thought, as the flow of human traffic wound steadily around the Showcase and they marched back towards the World’s Largest Fancy Sphere.

Tony hugged his arm, and Steve offered to hand over the hoodie—it was _his_ gift, after all—but Tony just shook his head, said, “No, I’m good, I’m good.” He walked arm-in-arm with Bruce for a time to prove it, who had even deigned to remove his earplugs for a brief conversation about _possibilities_.

Returning to Steve’s side, Tony held his arm, trusting Steve to follow Clint, their designated leader, and Bruce, in his immediate wake, before pulling out his phone. He tapped out a quick message, _Heading to the Land, see you soon_ , and pocketed his phone.

“How you holding up?” Steve asked, aware that Clint was setting a decent pace against the general flow of congested human traffic, working towards a less dense bridge where they’d be able to go with the flow.

“Me? I’m great. Can’t you see the pep in my step?” Tony said, rubbing his back. “Getting tired, old man?”

Smiling a little, concerned but warmed, Steve said, “Lemme know if that changes.”

“OK, so, _Soarin’_ last? Or _Spaceship Earth_?”

“Last?” Steve mused. “Why last?”

“Well,” Tony said, pointing straight ahead towards a tall, pointed building, then at a ninety-degree angle towards the Fancy Sphere. “Conserving energy.”

“I still wanna hit up _Test Track_ ,” Clint said seriously.

“Should’ve gone with Natasha while you had the chance,” Tony drawled. “I _have_ faster cars, what is it with you people and—”

“ _Test Track_?” Bruce echoed, removing an earplug and frowning. “What’s that?”

Sighing, Tony fished out the handful of universal FastPasses from his little blue bag, handed Clint two, and said, “Scram. You have thirty minutes or the flight leaves without you.”

Unexpectedly hugging Tony, Clint pulled back, holding him by the shoulders, and saying seriously, “Happy birthday.” 

Then he grabbed Bruce, who asked, “Wait, what’s a _Test Track_?” and dragged him the distant screaming machine, Bruce’s shoes beginning to make a rubber-dragging-on-concrete sound.

“Now that we’ve gotten rid of them,” Tony huffed, looking at Steve. “How do _you_ feel about _Spaceship Earth_?” He pointed at the Fancy Sphere.

Steve blinked at it. “It flies?”

Huffing a laugh, Tony said, “No.” Pulling out his phone again, he sent off a brief text: _Abort mission, sending the boys to you_ , and pocketed it. “It—you’ll see.”

It had a standby line of sixty minutes, confirming Steve’s theory that everything in Disney was expensive—timewise or moneywise or lengthwise, it didn’t matter—but they scanned one of their three remaining golden tickets and voila. 

“Three down, two to go,” he mused, pulling Steve down a long, winding queue.

* * *

It was a boat ride, Steve realized. And a flight ride—climbing up, up, and away. It might’ve even had a bit of coaster in its soul, following a winding track, all its gears and parts turning, the now-familiar grind of machines so like _home._ And it was, at its core, a show, as a narrator introduced, nearly right in his ears: “Welcome to _Spaceship Earth_.”

And he realized that was more than an attraction name: it was the perfect description of what it _was_. It was a spaceship, encapsulating all of human-Earth. It was somehow more real than anything they had seen yet, with scenes from arctic landscapes no living memory could hand down, ancestors battling _mammoths_ with spears and hope and a dire need to survive. It was ancient—Phoenicians, inventing the alphabet, and Egyptians, inventing a sort of law and order, and Greeks and Romans, inventing a classical art that would endure for millennia. 

It was the Dark Ages. A burning smell filled the room, stinging his eyes. Tony’s hand clamped down on Steve's knee. Steve glanced over at him, losing the scene. Inspired, he reached into the bag set on his lap, pulled out Zeus, and handed it to Tony. 

Tony latched onto the Yeti wordlessly, rigid with attention. In the darkness, Steve knew, humanity grasped for straws. For things with fur and wet noses and even glowing eyes, for points of warmth--for, above all else, companionship, a feeling of anything other than petrifying solitude. 

Giving it to him, Steve set his hand on top of Tony’s and held on long after the burning room. He wished he could put an arm around Tony, but it wouldn’t have been comfortable in the space. Thankfully, as the acid taste of flames disappeared, Tony's breathing shuddered back to normal. He did not release Zeus.

Soon after, they approached an all-too-familiar scene: an old-timey movie theater. Steve’s throat tightened in longing. He gripped Tony’s hand to keep himself from getting out and joining the fake audience in front of the silver screen, just to pretend it was real, just for a little while. The images on the screen were certainly real, and oh, to be _there_ , to really _be there_ again.

And then they were quietly moving beyond, the march of time relentless, and he saw a family watching the Moon landing in real time, _One small step for man_ , and wondered what it was like to have nostalgia for that time. No one alive knew what it was like to be with the Egyptians in their pyramids, but there were plenty who had, in fact, lived to see humankind do the unthinkable and step on another world. 

Reeling at the knowledge, at the simple tangible presence of it, he found himself drifting, aching to go _home_. Really home—not to machines he did not know and people who did not speak his language, but to a place where things made sense, and he never had to think twice about how to work a coffeemaker, where he could just _do_ things, where he could simply _be_.

But home was where the heart was, and as Tony squeezed his knee again, gentler, this time, more for him than himself, Steve thought, _Home doesn’t have you_ , and knew it would be a sad, lonely world no matter what else it boasted if he could not come home to Tony.

And as they descended down the mountain again and regarded the strange, futuristic screen, promising to show them a silly, futuristic future that made Tony laugh, the same irrepressible fit that had caught Steve in the boat ride before it—he felt light again, like some tension had unwound in him. 

Home would always _be_ home, would always be that dark theater and those people who _knew_ what he was talkin’ about, who didn’t think he was funny when he said something just slightly sideways, but to see all the wonders of the twenty-first century before him as they were shown their magic eight-ball future—why, he couldn’t deny, it was a delight. 

It was a simple, easy delight, and he laughed, too, at the image of Tony’s scowling face on the cartoonishly cheery avatar waving at them, showing off his flying car.

“Look—the future,” he told him, making Tony sigh, but it was a fond little sigh, as they finally exited their moving vehicle, the march of time relentless.

“Nerd,” was all he said, full of so much amusement, and Steve thought, _Thank you_ , and _I’m sorry_ , and _I wish nobody had ever hurt you_ , as the little blue light in his chest glowed noticeably underneath his t-shirt in the fuller darkness.

Inspired, he shed his hoodie, took the backpack with its replaced passenger from Tony, and shouldered it while Tony tugged his birthday gift over his head gratefully. His exhale was euphoric as he brought it to his nose briefly, nearly burying his whole face in it for a moment, outsized and baggy but only endearing for it.

“Aren’t you cold?” Tony asked, looking at Steve. Steve shook his head. Between all the fanfare and walking around and time in the cocoon, he felt plenty warm, assuring aloud:

“I’m wonderful.”

Smirking, looking him over, Tony said, “You know, it suits you.”

Looking over his shoulder at the bag hanging from it, Steve said, “Does it?”

“Blue’s your color,” he reminded breezily, hooking arms with him again. The reactor was no longer visible from the outside, only down the just-visible collar. “Brings out your eyes.”

Huffing, Steve said, “Yours, too,” and Tony frowned thoughtfully at him, obviously sensing the silliness of it— _my eyes aren’t blue_ —but he didn’t mean his eyes at all.

 _It suits you_.

Picking up what he was throwing, Tony hummed, leading him along at a decidedly more leisurely gait, adding dryly, “I’m either never going to sleep again, or I’m going to crash so hard I’ll sleep for a week after this.”

“Same,” Steve said, making him snort an unexpected little laugh.

“You?” he said. Leaning in, he wheedled, “ _Captain America_?”

“Barely know ‘im,” Steve muttered, smiling, rumpling Tony’s hair fondly, making him scrunch up his nose. “C’mon. Show me this . . . _Land_.”

“Oh, I will. But first—you gotta meet the big guy.”

“The big guy?” Steve echoed, frowning.

* * *

The big guy was actually a little guy.

“The Big Cheese,” Tony announced, as Mickey Mouse waved at him enthusiastically, beckoning him. Mickey Mouse, in the flesh—waving at him, little Steve Rogers, nobody Rogers, what a thing to see. Stepping forward, Steve met him halfway, clasping hands with the Big Cheese, saying honestly:

“Nice to meet ya.”

Nodding warmly, Mickey looked him up and down, and then, stepping back so he could stand tall, he did a proper military salute, holding it for a good moment, no risk of an audience in their little nook. “Just a kid from Brooklyn,” Steve assured, offering the two-finger salute back, feeling odd for doing it to a mouse but, if ever there was a mouse he’d bend his decorum for, it’d be Mickey. “Thank you.”

Mickey grasped his hand, shook it once, a wordless, _Thank_ you.

They hugged, briefly, the sort of warm, rubbing back enthusiasm he’d come to almost expect from real life characters, and then parted, gesturing at Tony, who’d been hanging back, saying, “C’mon, you gotta—”

Tony sighed, mock aggrieved, but stepped forward and, when the Mouse paused him to tap his own chest, right over the center, Tony smiled ruefully. “Two for two,” he said, holding out a fist for a fist-bump that Mickey easily returned, hip-with-the-kids, Steve mused. Tony hugged him briefly and told him, “Haven’t seen _you_ in a spell.”

Nodding in agreement, Mickey stepped back and drew a heart in midair with both hands, then tapped the center of his chest again. “Still got it,” Tony agreed quietly, “still got it.” Nodding again, Mickey gestured them forward, and Tony huffed, “All right, _one_ ,” and fished out his phone, handing it to the cast member.

She took four, Steve noticed, amused, and they had twenty photos altogether by the time they’d made it through Mickey and his friends. 

Minnie gave him no less than fifteen kisses on the cheek. Tony grinned at the warm treatment, standing arm-in-arm with her and declaring, “I have a new date, Steven, go find your own,” while she kicked up a heel for a photo before standing in the middle for another picture. 

Pluto was—well, exactly what an outsized puppy was supposed to be. He hugged Steve hard enough to almost knock him over. He did not attempt the salute, but he did express his enthusiasm in droves, making Steve laugh despite himself. Thankfully, Pluto handled Tony with more care, pointedly not pressing down on his chest when they hugged, like he knew what was underneath the hoodie.

And Goofy—well, Goofy was the only one they didn’t have to duck for, and his salute was huge, jaunting out and heartfelt, and he didn’t offer one back but he did offer a good hug, patting him on the back nice and gentle as Goofy held his own ears for a silly picture with them, Steve’s arm slung around Tony and Tony’s around Goofy.

It was getting on in the evening before they reached the Land without a moniker, but Steve felt warm to his core, surprised at how simple and heartfelt it was to meet five of the big six—“Donald’s like me; early to bed, late to rise,” Tony explained, when he asked who the sixth member was.

* * *

Steve didn’t have time to entertain disappointment that they hadn’t completed the set, because just outside the Land, Mr. Early to Bed and Late to Rise himself was standing, tapping his foot in mock impatience as he looked at his blue-shirted handler. When he turned and saw them coming up the way, he jumped.

Squaring off, Donald trampled over, held out an arm, and waited for one of them to take it. After a beat, Tony did, and Steve watched them march towards the Land, absentmindedly wondering why on Earth he had allowed his boyfriend to be kidnapped by a Duck at Disney.

Realizing he should probably pursue, he found both Tony and Clint, as well as two outsized cartoon Chipmunks and their handlers. “Big Eight?” he mused. Donald was busy standing off to one side, pointing to Tony’s shirt in mock disappointment while Tony ratted Steve out, pointing at Steve and explaining:

“It’s actually _his_ sweater.”

Nodding in sudden understanding, Donald patted his arm in assurance, like, _Don’t you worry about a thing, we’ll fix this_.

“Who’s this?” Steve asked Clint, who had a very large Chipmunk standing on either side of him.

“Chip,” Clint said, pointing at the red-nosed Chipmunk, who immediately turned and walked away while the black-nosed Chipmunk at his side clutched its belly and bowed over with unvoiced laughter. “I mean—uh. _Chip_ ,” and slung his arm gently around the newly-straightened Chipmunk, who patted his back warmly, clearly amused. “And that’s Dale,” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s a hard-knock life, being identical twins,” he said, to an enthusiastic if slightly baleful nod from _Dale_ , who had a red nose.

“Well,” Steve said, pointing at his own nose as it was impolite to point at others, “it’s easy. Dale has the red nose.”

Dale came over to Steve, slung an arm around _his_ shoulders, and squeezed it in agreement. Patting the Chipmunk on the back, Steve told him, “How do you do?”

Nodding, Dale patted him back and returned to Clint’s side, while Chip made a show of covering _Dale’s_ nose and looking at Clint expectantly. “I know it’s you, Chip,” he grumbled, while Chip released Dale and clapped.

“Met your match, huh?” Steve mused, ordering, “Oughtta get a picture of this for posterity, bested by Chipmunks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Holding out his phone with a sigh, Clint ordered, “Just make me look taller than them, would you?”

Instantly, both Chipmunks leaned up on tiptoe. Steve huffed, took the picture, and then both Chipmunks settled flat-footed again, allowing him to snag a more proper one, arm-in-arm. Taking turns with enthusiastic goodbyes that Steve also captured with pictures, the Chipmunks descended on him briefly for the same spiel, except he said, “Hey, Tony, get in here.”

“I’m needed,” Tony told Donald, who let him go as he said, “All right, which,” and both Chipmunks raised a hand.

Dale snugged his paw firmer around Steve’s arm, pulling him conspicuously away from his brother. “I’ll take this one,” Tony decided, amused.

They smiled for the camera and put up with enthusiastic goodbyes as well, _Chipmunks_ , full of blown kisses and lots of waving as the handler insisted, “All right, Chip, Dale, time to head back to dinner.”

Turning back frequently to wave, the Chipmunks only followed the handler obediently around the circular building towards the opposite side.

At their side, Donald tapped his foot against the ground, hands on his hips. “Poor Donald,” his handler said.

“Number one in our hearts,” Tony assured, and Donald put a wing over his own heart and held it there, pretended to fawn. “All right, I gotta get my picture with the Duck, he came all the way to see us.” Arm-in-arm, they did have a striking resemblance, Steve mused without saying it aloud, allowing the cast member to field this one—he still wasn’t as comfortable with the phone cameras as the real cameras, and the last thing he wanted was to mess _this_ one up for posterity.

“Thank you, Donald,” he added sincerely, stepping back and bowing.

Steve couldn’t help himself, saying dryly, “Should be bowing to you, it’s _your_ birthday.”

Donald jumped, then pointed at Tony incredulously, like, _His birthday?_ Steve nodded. Tony sighed but said, “You had to say it, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Steve agreed, pleased.

Fumbling around in faux-pockets, Donald finally looked at his handler, who said, “What?” Pointing with both open hands at Tony, Donald mimed writing something in a book, and his handler added, “Sure—do you have any paper?” She directed the latter at them, but Steve shook his head, knowing that their little bag was empty.

Clint started, “I can get—”

The handler assured, “We’ll be right back,” and took Donald arm-in-arm with her down the way, who waved at some kids as they disappeared through a Cast Member Only area.

It was scarcely two minutes before, white paper and clipboard in hand, Donald reappeared triumphantly wielding a thick black marker in one feathered wing. He gestured them closer, plastered the clipboard and paper on it onto the nearest wall, and scribbled in a surprisingly artistic font, _Happy Birthday, Iron Man! Love, Donald Duck #1_

Sliding the page off the clipboard, he handed board and marker back to his handler before kissing the paper loudly, then extending it to Tony with the air of a civilian before his king.

Looking duly humbled, Tony took the paper, said sincerely, “Thank you, Donald,” and accepted a quick duckbilled kiss on the cheek. Donald hugged them both, then trundled after his handler briskly, a Duck with places to be and things to do. He was out of sight in less than two minutes, as if he had never been.

Rolling up the paper and tucking it into the backpack on Steve’s shoulder carefully, adjusting Zeus in the process, Tony said slowly, “If any more magical things happen today, my brain might melt out my ears.”

Amused, Steve just said, “Tony—you deserve it all and more.”

* * *

They found Bruce and Natasha in an open dining area downstairs—evidently, Natasha did not need to hug a giant Chipmunk to experience Disney magic, and Bruce had taken one look at their improvised greeting party before taking the opposite path along the circular walkway down to the lower level of the Land.

“What _do_ you like about Disney?” Tony mused at the latter as they sat at a dingy little table and shared war stories of _Test Track_ and characters.

“Being with you,” Bruce said honestly.

Looking touched, Tony said, “. . . Well, I like skipping lines,” and wagged the two remaining FastPasses. “It’s only got a fifty-minute standby, folks. Could squeeze in three flights.”

“Glutton for punishment?” Natasha drawled, sipping a glass of water.

“Something like.”

“You two ride _Spaceship Earth_?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And?” Clint asked, looking mostly at Steve.

Shrugging, Steve said truthfully, “Amazing.”

“You’d’ve liked _Test Track_ ,” he said breezily, looking around. “Sixty-five miles an hour, open air.”

“Sounds exhilarating,” Steve drawled.

“S’one word for it.” Pushing back, he rallied, “We doin’ this? Got less than four hours 'til park close.”

Looking vaguely mournful, Bruce said, “ _Four_ hours?”

“Getting every ounce of this birthday outta it,” Clint said without a trace of irony. “Right, Stark?”

Sipping loudly at his drink, Tony drawled, “Do you hear me crying, _Uncle_?”

“That’s the spirit. FastPass it is.”

* * *

After a long, long, long day—and Steve didn’t use the phrase lightly—there was a lot of build up to _Soarin’_.

They’d heard plenty of good things, and like _Avatar_ and its accompanying ride, it was highly rated—one of the new attractions that earned top-notch reviews. New, if one hadn’t been to the parks in over a decade, Steve amended, smiling as they made their way down the thankfully straight-and-narrow queue, no crazy switchbacks here. 

So much of Magic Kingdom hadn’t changed, and with the exception of Avatar Land, Animal Kingdom was largely untouched but for its star thrill ride, _Expedition Everest_ —but EPCOT had undergone transformations, and _Soarin’_ was one of them. It was arguably the biggest one, ushering in an area of wild growth.

Growth—the defining characteristic of the twenty-first century. So much of the Disney parks had _not_ changed—but so much else _had_ , and it was clear that of all the rides listed, this was the one that had intrigued him the most. Even _Flight of Passage_ , the impossible FastPass, hadn’t sparked his interest half as much as the tried-and-true favorite, the one ride _everyone_ recommended, the one guaranteed chance to fly on command for those who did not have wings.

Steve was a man of low expectations—he’d seen small wonders in his lifetime, and marveled at them—and in the course of one day, he’d been exposed to so much that it was hard to imagine anything could surprise him. Indeed, when he heard _flight ride_ , he thought _Flight of Passage_ and wondered how they would handle it, if their hearts could take the yearning, the longing for another world.

Sometimes, it was painful to go somewhere good, if one could not stay for long.

As they approached the loading dock, they had to wait for a while, and Steve asked Tony, “Nervous?”

“Me?” Tony asked him. “No. Of course not.” He was. Fidgeting with the backpack, he added, “Sorry, Zeus, gotta tuck you in,” and made sure it was zipped shut. “I fly in a spacesuit to sixty thousand feet. Why would I be nervous?”

 _Not about the thrill. The wonder_. Shrugging, Steve said, “I just . . .”

Twining his hand in Steve’s, Tony just said, “Let’s have at it. See what it is. Then judge. Hey, we can always use this on _Spaceship Earth_. Didn’t even _have_ a universal FastPass when we walked in, let alone five of them.” That much was true—emphatically. “Let’s see.”

Nodding, they stepped into a landing zone, where they were instructed to stand on individual circles on the floor, their future flight seats. A man appeared on screen to speak to them about their upcoming voyage, informing them the same basic safety that their Safari driver had—but with the charming editions of flight safety, like buckling in one’s seat belt and securing loose luggage.

The anticipation was staggering. It was not so much, _This is what it is like to fly_ , because they had flown in a plane before, and they had flown in the suit. Steve had even worn the suit, had hovered briefly and not high at all, but still—free-flight, unaided. It wasn’t for him—he found it terrifying more than exciting, like being in the middle of the ocean, the emptiness that Tony spoke of almost ungodliness to him—but it was still a breathtaking experience, the first time. And he knew, from a day of wonder, that he would not be disappointed as they filed into their seats.

They’d followed Tony’s scavenged advice and waited to be seated in the front middle row, to avoid the apparent but slightly cumbersome image of feet just overhead. Steve wouldn’t have minded—not at all; any view was better than no view, and it was apparently not an issue or Disney would have had tiers, some way of delineating more extremely that this was prime seating—but he trusted Tony’s intuition, and it was staggering to be in front of the giant screen, like _Flight of Passage_ but unimaginable in its scope, so large it defied comprehension. 

He could not _look_ at the thing, could not take it all in properly: like a tall building, top to bottom, it was simply too huge to grasp in one take, no standing vantage allowing him to see it all. It only reinforced the fathomlessness of it, and he thought, _This is about to be something,_ as he tucked the blue backpack into the little folding area underneath his seat. Then he buckled his harness in and tried not to hold his breath, feet planted firmly on the floor, wondering how on God’s green earth anyone would be able to see around him, behind him.

Tony’s hand slid into his own, grasping it.

The lights dimmed. For a moment, there was cavernous silence. The only thing to notice was the depthless screen before him and the blue lighting interweaving the area, landing strip like.

Then the same pilot as before announced: “ _Soarin’_ to Tower—we are ready for takeoff.”

With a mechanical hiss, the entire glider _rose_ —up, up, and away, faster than he expected, not like a coaster or a boat or a bike at all, but a _glider_ —and they were up in the air.

High, _high_ up, free floating, feet dangling, feeling the wind, the air, the world opening up in front of them, and warmth, reassurance, and breathtaking relief poured over Steve. Because it wasn’t the terror he’d expected from that single sweep, the climb that could only lead to a fall—and it wasn’t the joy of a ride he’d never want to end—no, it was _home_.

It was his home in the sky, the breeze in his hair, the misty white clouds, the amber waves of grain far below. Every inch of it was _real_ , and the smell of oranges infused him, made him want to loll in them. He got to--it lingered with him, even as they moved on, gliding, tilting forward, gently upward. He absorbed the experience, flight for _flight’s_ sake, floating on air, being above the ground, living an actualized dream.

Every inch of it was home. Being held up in the sky with metal under his fingertips, every inch of it fathomable, the taste of it, the feel of it. Even the way the world _sounded_ was correct. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes, the clog of them in his throat, but it wasn’t sadness--it was pure joy. Tony’s hand lingered loose in his own, content. 

Together. Like they always were.

* * *

It was the one ride they went on twice.

And they were happy to.

 _We get to do this again_ , Steve thought, as they walked, hand-in-hand, down the cue, the little blue backpack on Tony’s shoulders. _Ten thousand times_.

Not in the park, no. But at home. Sweet home.

High in the sky.

* * *

The only thing about _Soarin’_ that Steve didn’t like was the fireworks.

It was everything he disliked about fireworks: right at the end, there was a smattering that was loud and thudded right in his chest and shook the glider. It made him shake as he collected the bag. He was collected by the time they made it to the door, the bright lights and chatting people reminding him where he _was_.

It didn’t ruin the ride, no, but Steve still flinched the second time around. It was like firing a _cannon_. Who thought it was a good idea to shoot one at the crowd like that, even if it was fake? He supposed it was the epitome of _out like a bang_ , but _still_. Didn’t a wave and a _have a nice day_ count?

Regardless, he knew he was in for it when they exited the Land and heard themed music blaring across the park. If that wasn’t enough, he heard Tony’s voice, full of trepidation, announce, “Oh, look at that. Just in time.” Almost on cue, the rest of the park lights dimmed, almost like a ride, leaving only emergency lighting illuminated. “Well,” Tony announced dryly, indicating a rocky curved bench or the park exit, that-way. “Which way?”

Shrugging, Steve looked at him, aware that Tony could probably use a sit down and, a show was still a show, didn’t he know? Sitting down on the rocky bench-wall determinedly, Steve patted the space beside himself. He curled an arm around Tony for good measure as Tony settled in next to him, radiating tension. A moment later, the giant orange torches lining the liquid-black lake went out, and a distant drumbeat began.

Then a firework shot into the sky, and Steve thought, _Oh, that kind of show_ , but it wasn’t the firework bursting into a million pieces that caught him: it was the _music_ , a single high note tracing the arc of the shot.

It wasn’t a fireworks show at all—it was a _concert_ , disguised as a fireworks show. It was a _Disney_ concert, with fire and water as the instruments as much as the musical ones, and there was no percussive _boom_ , no counting the seconds until it was over. The music was lively, immersive, a stage play without actors, dancing around them. 

It was better up close, he was sure, and he felt bad that they weren’t closer, but they could see the whole World from their vantage, all the lights, all the water, and the _music_ , by _God_ , it was everywhere, it seemed, not one dim point but all around them. It was beautiful.

And the fireworks were not loud but drumbeats, too, used just like instruments on the water, and he had no trouble not flinching from them, or shivering from them, staring, entranced, as they leapt into the sky, wondering with some sad part of him why all fireworks couldn’t be _like_ this. With the music to absorb the din, to occlude it in some way, it wasn’t the gunshot knock in the chest but a melody, interwoven with zealous, brilliant, enamoring light in the sky.

He was grateful for his eyes, strong and clear in the dimmest of lights. He did worry that Tony wouldn’t experience it truly from a distance, but Tony didn’t seem to mind, leaning into him as they watched. The music softened, dimmed, but then Steve noticed a giant sphere moving along the water. 

It was tiny compared to the one dominating the park, the height of a man, maybe. He suspected it was probably three times that size, to be visible to others from any distance, and its surface was—lit up in lights, and he stared at the designs on it, sure, now, that Tony could not see through the crowds and distance what he could, the _patterns_ , even the unreal, the colors others couldn’t, the ultraviolet luminescence, utterly, completely enraptured.

It seemed to take a long time for it to reach the center of the lake, but he knew up close that the lake was grander than it seemed, and the music carried it there, not a firework in sight, only fire and water and _light_ , the music swelling and rippling, low to the ground, a flute joining in sometime midway. 

And as the little sphere finally came to a resting point, still spinning, he realized, it began to unfurl, to open up like a lotus flower, revealing fire at its core, and he watched, and sat up more as the music swelled, and knew exactly when the next shot was to fire, waiting for it, _excited_ for it in a way he hadn’t been since he was a kid.

It was like seeing a fireworks show in broad daylight, marks called out for him, _here, here, and here_ , none of the terrifying jump-at-one’s-back uncertainty, the crackling chest-deep heaviness, just a _show_ , where fireworks were another instrument. It made the hot emotion swell up inside him again. This time he did not try to contain it, glad the darkness made the tears invisible, resting his cheek on top of Tony’s head.

And it just went _on_ , more beautiful around every turn, light and bright and beautiful, and he hoped to God he never forgot what it sounded like, if only so he could feel this good when he wanted to remember what fireworks were supposed to be like. It was not just the fireworks, though—it was the whole of it, enrapturing, capturing, enamoring, utterly holding onto him.

He watched, and watched, and yearned, and thought, _I am glad to be here to see this_.

And he was glad to be there with _Tony_ , to be there with his family, Clint and Bruce and Natasha, off on their own, though surely they’d return. It didn’t matter that it was a strange new world—it was a beautiful new world, too. 

The music swelled to a happy crescendo, and Steve sat up, leaned up like a kid, straining to hold onto every inch of it. He could not sit any longer as it approached its zenith, and as it closed, he heard the tiny, tinny applause in the distance, ringing the entire lake and beyond, cheers, whoops, cries of jubilation, the reflections of joy shared among the first-timers and old-timers, and he joined in with his own cheers, clapping and crying out with them in wordless wonder.

Utterly anonymous in the darkness, he clapped with them for a show he’d had nothing to do with and only been there to partake while Tony stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled his approval, grinning as Steve pulled him to his feet. He heard an answering whistle, higher in pitch farther down the way and spotted Clint, while Bruce cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, _Whoo! Whoo!_ Natasha applauded politely nearby with the rest of them before shoving Clint to break him off.

Steve exclaimed, “My _God!_ ” and laughed, just laughed, because what a _show_! A real show!

* * *

And then—at last—there was nothing more to do.

Sure, there was more to do. There always would be. But as the voice crooning over the speakers pointed out as Steve walked arm-in-arm with his guy away from it all:

_Every evening brings an ending._

It was made for them, Steve thought, squeezing Tony’s hand as they passed under the shadow of _Spaceship Earth_ one last time, looking up at its purple hue, reflecting on: _We’ll go on, growing closer through the years_. Smiling, he pulled Tony closer, sliding an arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his temple. He said, “I love you.” He didn’t know how many times he’d said it in one day, only knew it would never be enough.

Tony squeezed his waist in mute agreement, tired but happy. Together, they walked past rows of stone, chaperoned by the memories of what could only be remembered as a perfect day, with a simple promise at their backs:

 _Ever on, another thousand circles ‘round the sun_.

 _If two can be as one, we’ll go on_.

* * *

Tony groaned, “I can’t walk anymore. I’m kaput. Leave me, Steven.”

Steve laughed softly, but said, “I’ll carry you.”

Standing on the sandy knoll outside their own lake, Tony didn’t hop on his back, letting him pick Steve up, bridal-style. It _was_ his birthday, after all. The walk to the room wasn’t that long, and at ten-thirty, it was far from crowded. They didn’t see a single soul once they abandoned their own clan.

“I’m going to sleep for ten years,” Tony declared, fishing his keycard out of his pocket and letting them in without making any motion of wanting down. “Twenty.”

“Okay,” Steve said agreeably, setting him gently on the bed.

“Thirty, if you keep that up,” Tony grumbled. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Steve mused, pausing as he flicked off the light again. “That?”

Flicking on the bedside light instead, Tony snorted when he looked up and said, “Oh, God, it looks like _Up_ in here. _And_ Jimmy’s still here. Where’s Zeus?”

Reaching around his shoulder, Steve set the bag down, unzipped it, and handed him the Yeti.

“Fatherhood suits you,” Tony said, making him laugh.

“I dunno, I like what we got goin’ on,” Steve said, climbing into bed next to him, shoes and all. They were on vacation. It didn’t matter. Tony snuggled up close, Zeus squished between them, and he let out a laugh. “You really like marshmallows, huh?”

“Gonna dream about Tribbles,” Tony said in a tone of agreement, eyes shut. “I didn’t forget anything important.”

“No,” Steve said, curling an arm around his back, scratching the back of his neck lightly. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Squinting an eye open, Tony asked, “Was kind of expecting—”

Smiling, Steve said, “Well, I didn’t know if you wanted to wait 'til tomorrow. Seemed second tier.”

Opening both eyes now, Tony said, “I didn’t want to presume. You’re very sweet.”

“You thought I _forgot?_ ” Steve said, vaguely affronted, as he rolled over and vaulted out of bed, landing on the floor. Snagging his own bag, he pulled it over and unzipped the pocket. “Me?”

“Well,” Tony said at his back, then, “No.” Warily, he asked, “Is it alive?”

“No,” Steve said. “Not alive.”

“Good. I’m not ready for a live child. What if I forget to feed it?”

“I know how you feel about gifts,” Steve said hesitantly, sitting on his haunches, suddenly doubtful. “So, I, you know. Didn’t want to spring anything on you.”

“Not making me change my mind about my gift policy here,” Tony said, sitting up, setting Zeus next to him expectantly. “Only two judges. He’s an automatic ten, so you can still beat the dealer at Blackjack.” Grinning toothily, he added, “I’ll admit, I am hard to beat at Blackjack. Very hard to beat. Because I’m the dealer. Dealer always wins. Is it alive? I already asked that. No live pets. Unless it’s a gator. Actually, no—”

“Tony.” Heart beating fast, Steve fiddled the little ring box in hand, adding, “You know, I wanted this to be special. But I know you’ll take this the wrong way if I wait 'til tomorrow.”

“Oh, God, it’s a live animal. Steve, we can’t have—”

Without a word, Steve set the closed box on the bed, still in hand. Tony made a noise that was halfway between a punched-out _oh_ and a yelp, like Steve had set an actual mouse on the bed. He didn’t say a word as he sat up slowly, suddenly wide-eyed and staring at Steve, kneeling there on the floor, feeling silly and nowhere near prepared but—“You were gonna wait 'til _tomorrow_?” was the first thing Tony said.

Steve grinned, sheepish, ears burning. “I didn’t want to—it’s _your_ day—”

“And it’ll _be_ my eng—it _is_ an—Steve, you’re killing me, hurry up,” he added, waving a hand, staring down at him, blinking rapidly, eyes glossy.

Swallowing, Steve said simply, “I love you. I wanna be with you. Every single day I can be. And I’ve spent five years—five years knowing a beautiful life with you. I wanna know what the rest of my life with you would be like.” Flipping open the box, revealing the black tungsten band, he asked, “Tony, will you marry me?”

Tony tackled him. “That’s a _yes_ ,” he added, fully three minutes of shared laughing about it later, Steve holding him to his chest, happier than he could ever recall being. “I’m never sleeping _again_ ,” he added beatifically, kissing Steve.

All in all, Steve thought—not a bad way to end the day, after all. He grinned to himself, and Tony asked, “What?” and he just said:

“Just thinkin’—you know, we still got tomorrow.”

“N-O, we’re not leaving this room.”

Steve laughed, louder, then, not caring what time it was, because—hey, he was _engaged_ to the most beautiful, wonderful, talented man on Earth, and it was his guy’s birthday.

They could be silly. It was Disney World, after all.


End file.
